Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
How smug can he possibly be? I grind my molars but I don’t say anything, because I have nothing to say to him about my love life.
But he has plenty to say. “You need to work on your focus. Life is going to keep coming at you. Do you need a mental skills coach? A psychologist?”
All he wants to do is hire people to improve me. No wonder I felt like I was hockey, hockey, hockey when I met Josie. Because that’s all he ever wanted me to be. That’s all he ever sees me as—a hockey player.
But, a voice whispers meanly in my ear, stirring up all my old fears, Maybe there’s a reason. It’s the only thing you’re good at. Except…what if you’re not good at it after all?
“No,” I say, answering him at last.
He tilts his head, seeming confused momentarily. “No what?”
“No, I don’t want you to hire anyone. Okay? Coach already moved me back to the second line. It’s done. Can we just eat in peace?”
“But what about the roommate situation?” The implication is loud and clear.
I clench my fists. Take another deep breath. Then one more. “I meant it. I do not want to talk to you about women.”
He takes it on the chin with a resigned nod. “Fair enough.”
I stick to my guns, shutting my mouth. But that means he drones on and on about hockey for the next thirty minutes, and I sit there and eat and take it.
When I leave, I both want to talk to Josie and run from Josie, and I hate feeling this twisted and torn.
Maybe I can get some sleep and sort it out in the morning. Curl up with her and fix it when the sun is up.
But when I get home, she’s not in my bed, and that feels like a kick in the balls.
41
KIND OF A LOT
Josie
Wes said to presume a few weeks ago, but I can’t presume tonight. I can’t presume he wants me upstairs. I can’t sleep either. That’s the problem.
I never have trouble sleeping—never. But tonight, I’m in my own room for the first time in more than a month. The lights are out and I’m trying so hard to bring sweet dreams my way.
But as soon as I hear him return to the house and head up the steps, I know he’s looking for me. I know he’s disappointed. Even if I feel him pulling away from me, have felt it since we danced in the living room last night, I don’t want to be another thing that hurts him. I want to help him like he helped me the night we met.
Besides, I’ve been trying to be brave. I’ve been trying to be bolder. I fling off the covers and push out of bed, pushing open the door right as he’s stepping into the doorway.
I flinch in surprise, then back up. “Oh.”
“Hey.” That’s it. A heavy syllable breathed into the night. He looks terrible. Devastated.
“What happened? Do you want to talk? Did your dad give you a hard time?”
He grits his teeth then breathes out hard. “Yeah. He said I’m distracted. Coach said as much, too, when he moved me to the second line.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, guilt lancing through me. This is my fault. Wes is distracted, and I know why. Still I have to try to make him feel better. “But that’s where you started the season. It’s not that bad, right? You know exactly what to do there, and you can keep working your way back.”
But that’s the exact wrong thing to say to an athlete. A step back isn’t fine. He’s wired for excellence, not acceptance.
“No, Josie. It’s bad,” he says in a hard voice, correcting me sternly.
I feel stupid all over again. “I’m sorry.”
He frowns, apologies in his brown eyes now. “Shit, baby. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He reaches for my face and cups my cheek, and it feels so good as he strokes my jaw. But it feels awful at the same time because it’s an I’m sorry gesture.
I’m sorry I’m about to hurt you.
“I’m a wreck right now,” he says, his voice strained, full of potholes and self-loathing. “But it’s not your fault.”
Except…is it my fault? That’s what I can’t shake—the feeling that I’m to blame. “Do you think you’re distracted? By me and us and my job search and by what’s going to happen? Is it stressing you out? All the…unknown?” My chest aches horribly but I have to ask these questions.
He pauses for a long while. In that stretch of silence, his face is honest, brutal even, with the truth in his eyes—the truth is yes. We are a distraction. I am stressing him out.
But Stoic Wes takes over and erases the emotions on his face. “No.”