“What?”
“Yeah, why should I be the only one to go to college? You should go too.”
“Because you’re the smart one. Plus, you like books.”
“You like dancing.”
“So?”
“They have dance schools.”
Yes, they do. And maybe, a long,longtime ago, I may have looked into them. When things would feel really hard at home, when my mother’s hatred toward me would bug me more than usual, I’d dream about running away to a dance school and never coming back. But those were just dreams. I can’t really go to a dance school. I wouldn’t even know how to get into one. Not to mention I hardly have the money to send my sister to college, let alone myself.
“I’m not going to a dance school,” I tell her firmly.
“So then, I’m not going to college,” Snow tells me firmly.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” I grumble.
“And you’re a pain in mine.”
I sigh, closing my eyes. “Fine, whatever. I have to go now. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After good nights, I hang up and head to the floor to start my shift. It’s a Friday so we have a fairly busy night. The floor is crowded with patrons. The music—mostly the heavy bass—is in full swing and the stage is sparkling with dancers. Most of the girls are already naked, with the rest getting there. I’m aware that as a stripper, I might make more money. Plus as Snow said, I love dancing. But imagine getting naked in front of the men who already treat me like I owe them a good time just because I’m a waitress at a strip club. God, I hate this job.
I check on my section and have put in my drink orders with the bartender when I hear an awedwow. This is spoken by Lively, who’s behind the bar, dumping her empties. I turn to her and ask, “Wow what?”
Her eyes are glued to something beyond my shoulders. “Is that…” She squints her eyes before saying, “Holy shit, itis.”
“It is what?”
I wait for her to reply, but she keeps staring at whatever it is that has her attention. I’m about to turn around and look when she says, “That soccer player.”
The mention of soccer makes me freeze.
But Lively keeps going. “What is he doing here? I thought he lived in New York.”
Now alongside my frozen body, my heart seems to stop too.
“God, he’s really hot,” Lively continues, still staring over my shoulder. “Like, really,really. In fact, he’s the reason I started watching soccer in the first place. Him and that other guy”—she squints her eyes—“what’s his name? Carlisle. Arrow Carlisle. He plays for the LA Galaxy. Do you know him? God, he’s hot too. Buthe,” she tips her chin, “is hotter. I think it’s his dark hair. I like dark-haired guys more than the blond ones so?—”
“What… What soccer player?” I finally manage to string some words together.
Lively’s lips tip up in a small smile as she keeps her focus behind my back. “And you know what, he knows it. He knows he’s hot. He knows girls go crazy for him and he uses that. He’s such an asshole,” she sighs, “but he works it. You want him to be a little bad to you, you know? You?—”
“Which soccer player, Lively?” I ask urgently now, cutting her off.
I’m aware that I can look for myself. I was in the process of doing that anyway but for some reason, I can’t. For some reason, I need to brace. I tell myself it doesn’t make sense, this feeling, because it could be any soccer player. Bardstown is a breeding ground for soccer players. Somehow this town produces the best of the best andsomehow, most of them end up in the big leagues. It could be anyone. It could be…
But my friend shatters the illusion when she says, “Uh, Thorne. The Wrecking Thorn.”
Or more like she confirms my suspicions, because no matter how I try to spin this in my head, I knew who it was—is. I knew it. I know it and my heart is going a million miles a minute and I don’t know how to calm it down. I don’t know how to turn around and look at him myself. But I also don’t know hownotto. It’s been six months. A little over six months since I saw him. Since everything fell apart and…
“Did you hear about what happened to him though?” Lively asks, her voice breaking through the noisy rush of my heart. “They’re saying his career may be over.”
A sharp anger pierces my chest at her words, and I clench my teeth. It happens every time I hear people say these things. Every time I hear it on the radio or read it on the internet, see it on social media, I want to throttle someone. I want toscreamin their faces to stop it. To stop spewing bullshit about him. Don’tthey know who he is? He’s a Thorne. He can come back from anything. Even from what happened six months ago.
“I don’t believe all the speculation, but,” Lively continues, shaking her head, her voice full of pity, “what happened to him was brutal. Like, really brutal. His fiancée wascheatingon him. With his twin brother.God.” She puts a hand to her chest. “Can you believe that? But wait, it gets even worse. When he found out about it, he got into this huge fight with his twin. Whobeat him up. Yeah. It was so bad he couldn’t play in the championship game last season.” She keeps shaking her head. “It was all over the news. Like, literally. Magazines, articles. Talk shows. Yikes. Everyone kept speculating on whether he’d be able to play again or not. Because apparently, his twin broke a bunch of his bones.”
