Shehas become my saving grace. Jupiter Jones. She doesn’t evenknowthe ways she has helped me. My Little Strawberry, thegoodgirl no matter how much I try to turn her dirty and bad. Who told me in very specific, explicit words that she wants to be a part of something. That she wants a family. She doesn’t want to deceive or lie. She doesn’t want to keep any more secrets or hurt anyone. And yet, I made her into my dirty little secret up against a fucking tree. The night before I was set to leave for my season. And now I’m avoiding her texts because I don’t know what to say.
I don’t have the right words.
“Who the fuck are you glaring at?”
I look away from my phone and focus on the man sitting beside me. We are at a club—I forget the name—in New Orleans, where we just had our first game. Which we won, surprisingly. Courtesy of our strong strikers, Ledger and Riot. I didn’t manage to score anything, but I wasn’t also the dumb fucker who kept missing every pass like I used to at the beginning of this season’s practices. And you know what, I’m proud of my boys, even though they’ve been annoying me ever since the news of our family’s two new additions broke out. I’m proud they picked up the slack when I wasn’t in top form.
But most of all, the reason I am in a better form than before, even if remotely, is because of her. So as much as I’m proud, I’m also so fucking… lonely. Without her. To celebrate. Or cheering me from the stands like so many of these boys’ girls do. I’m pathetically sad and lonely and instead of celebrating our hard-earned but also miraculous victory, I want to see her. I want to talk to her. I want to somehow convince her to wear my jersey and send me a picture of it so I can carry it with me into the next game. I mean, she shouldn’t, not after how I recorded her that night, seemingly for revenge but not really, but when has doing the right thing stopped me?
See my dilemma? Born to be an asshole, but somehow it’s fucking with my head that I can’t be anything else.
Anyway, back to the man who just asked me the question: his name is Byron Bradshaw and he’s one of my oldest friends from Bardstown. We went to high school together, but now he’s the captain of the New Orleans team that we won our game against. Not to mention he also happens to be my new sister’s favorite player. When Snow found out we were playing New Orleans, she couldn’t hide her excitement. Not going to lie, it hurt a little. I thoughtIwas her favorite. Plus, Byron isn’t the kind of a guy I’d imagine straitlaced and shy Snow ever liking, but it’s okay. I let it slide. In fact, I’m surprising her with his autograph and I’ve extracted a promise from him to visit Bardstown in a couple of months so Snow can personally meet him. And of course, we’ve had the ‘stay away from my sister’ talk already. Not that he would, but still, you never know. Men are assholes. Like me.
In any case, before I can reply to him, about the phone thing I mean, another guy sitting in our corner speaks for me. “Must be girl trouble.”
It’s Ark Reinhardt. He’s also one of my oldest friends, but no, he isn’t a soccer player. He used to play in high school but never really had any aspirations to go pro. Instead, he owns oneof the most respected security companies east of the Mississippi, based out of New York City and Bardstown. He was in town for business and decided to stop by for the game and, of course, the activities after.
All three of us are huddled in our own corner, away from the crowd. While I admit I’m not being very good company right now, I also don’t want them hassling me about things. So I pocket my phone, pick up my beer from the glass table in front of me and say, “I never have any trouble with girls. You’re probably thinking about yourself.”
Ark smirks, sipping from his own beer. “Nah, it’s you. Because you’re usually the one to fuck around with them.”
“I’m not fucking around,” I snap, my chest going tight. I know it was a joke, but I don’t even want to hear any jokes about me fucking with her. Although that’s exactly what I did and am doing. Will probably continue to do.
“Ah,” says Byron, sipping his beer before tipping the bottle toward me and guessing correctly. “There’s your problem. He did fuck around. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
My chest grows even tighter, and since these days the urge to punch people isn’t far behind, I crack my knuckles, imagining jamming them into his bearded jaw. “I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you.”
My pissed-off tone might have penetrated, because both my friends lose their amusement and sit straight. Ark’s the first to check in. “Is it about the engagement?”
Byron is next. “Are you still?—”
“I don’t want to talk about her,” I cut him off.
First because that’s my default reaction. I never want to talk about her with anyone. I don’t even want to say her name, if I can avoid it. It makes everything even more real and painful than it already is. Or at least, it used to be.
Second, the engagement. Yeah, that was a big one. A big fuck you that smacked me in the face and punched me in the gut. That’s what it felt like when I arrived at practice and found everyone looking at me with pity. I didn’t get it in the beginning. Until one of the guys on the team looked so apologetic formemissing the pass that I had to call everything to a halt and rip them all a new one. Which is when I found out.
My twin brother got engaged.
He’d been trying to reach me and I hadn’t checked my phone. They did the engagement in private, and it was never their intention to announce it to the world. Not for a while. Out of respect for me, of course. But things like this never stay hidden, and the whole world found out before me. So yeah, it was a sucker punch and yes, I lost my fucking head for a little bit. Poison overtook my veins, and I almost got into a fight with Stellan, my twin slash coach, for pointing something out about my form. Ledger had to be the one to stop it. Later, I almost got into a fight with Ledger and Riot intervened. At which point I punchedhim, or tried to, but then some of the guys held me back.
Long story short: I left practice early and drove around for hours. And missed my playdate with Snow, making me the worse shithead on the planet.
But I realized something later. Yes, it may have been the engagement that had gotten me upset because it came as such a shock. But it was more the fact that she wasn’t there, my Little Strawberry. It was more the fact that I couldn’t text her or talk to her or hear her voice. I couldn’t smell her or watch her fuss over Snow. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of her in my kitchen, prepping dinner for us, especially me, religiously following the diet plan she got from Callie. Because it’s usually her who takes care of my weekly menu when I’m in town. I couldn’t watch her flit from room to room, picking up after us even though I make sure tonever leave any mess behind or pick it up before she sees it. I couldn’t ask her to dance for me so I could feel some peace from the world, from their pitying glances.
It was more about the fact I couldn’t go to her, the only girl I wanted to see and be with in that moment, because if I had, I would’ve done what I wanted to do, what I did two nights ago, fucked her senseless. And she wouldn’t have liked it because she was trying to do the right thing, my good girl. And that got me so fucking riled up that I ended up starting fights left and right. I ended up staying out, even though she wanted me to come home, until the early hours of the next morning.
All of that to say, no I do not want to talk about the engagement or my twin brother’s girlfriend—fiancée—because it’s not even about them. Not any longer. It’s about her, the girl whose texts I’ve been avoiding for the past two days.
“Look,” Byron says, breaking into my thoughts. “You either talk to us and tell us what the fuck is wrong with you, or you can mope around instead of celebrating your sort-of comeback.”
“I don’t give a fuck about my comeback,” I say truthfully, again because she isn’t here to celebrate it with me.
Ark leans forward then, putting his elbows on his widespread thighs, his tatted fingers clutched around the beer bottle. “Okay, this I gotta hear. What could be more important than winning a game for the famous Wrecking Thorn?”
“Don’t be a fucking ass,” I mutter.
“By is right though. You tell us and maybe we can help you. Or you can sulk in your corner all night,” Ark points out.
