Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
As I nod my appreciation, the rest of the women come back from the kitchen, saving me from further interrogation.
“Who’s ready for a game?” Luna asks.
I hold up my hand. “Me. I’m really good at board games, especially the one with cheese and meat, maybe some fruit and crackers.” I point at the charcuterie spread in the middle of the coffee table, then grab a tiny pickle, nibbling on one end. “See? I’m a winner every time.”
Luna laughs, and though Samantha gives me a few extra glances, she doesn’t say anything about our conversation for the rest of the evening.
MADDOX
If I thought the last two months sucked balls, the last two days have sucked sweaty, hairy ones. Since the disastrous meeting, Riggs and I have been in pissy moods, and though I’d like to think I’m handling Kayla’s rejection with some degree of mature acceptance, the truth is I’ve been unable to pull myself out of this funk. And I’ve tried—watching my highlight reel, playing music too loudly, swimming laps, and going on runs around the neighborhood where I counted cute dogs. And yes, all dogs are cute and I was lucky enough to see nine of them.
But none of it has helped. Okay, the fluffy dachshund helped a little since he wanted a belly rub, and I have a soft spot for the breed, but the smile was fleeting at best.
What’s worse, if I’m cranky, Riggs has gone full-blown curmudgeonly, stomping around the house and slamming weights during his twice a day workouts. Thankfully, the floor in the gym is twelve inches of solid concrete and two inches of rubber matting, or else we’d have a divot by now. It’s not a tantrum. It’s pure, unfiltered disappointment, and also, a fair amount of self-punishment because of course, Riggs blames himself for Kayla turning us down.
I thought something magical happened in that hotel room. I’ve played it out in my head over and over since then—the sparkle in Kayla’s eyes, the way she fit between us so perfectly, and how she somehow made always-serious Riggs feel lighter and too-often-unserious me feel heavier, in a good way. It’d seemed right, like the thing I wasn’t even searching for had simply shown up right in front of me with a smile and a smart mouth.
I foolishly thought if we could find her, it would happen again. Easy-peasy, boom-boom-boom, with one boom for each of the three of us. Instead, it’s all gone majorly awry. Kayla said no even though I could see she wanted to say yes, Riggs is hurt deeply where he doesn’t want to talk about, and I’m stuck in the middle, unable to do anything about either side.
But I haven’t given up nor admitted defeat. Not yet.
Things haven’t always come easily to Riggs or me. Growing up with hopes and dreams of playing professionally, you learn quickly that it’s not only a long-shot, but also nearly impossible. In fact, it’s more likely you’ll get struck by lightning in your lifetime than make it to the pros. But if you want it, you try anyway. You go to those six AM practices when you’re tired, injured, and beat down by losses, coaches, and shitty teammates. You drag yourself through school, catching up on sleep in twenty- and thirty-minute naps while trying to stay on top of the books, only to go back to the rink after school where you stay for hours, long after everyone else has gone home for the night. You dedicate yourself to learning and relearning skills and drills, running them over and over until they’re not only textbook, but they’re also second nature. You hype yourself up, win or lose, not letting your belief in yourself waver for a second. You force your way to the front of the line to be seen by the right people, whether that’s coaches, scouts, or agents.
And if you make one of the big youth teams, or a college team? You start the whole process all over again, once again on the bottom of the pile and needing to work your way up.
In short, you work your ass off for it. And the same way I refused to let go of my goal to be a pro in the big leagues, I’m holding on to this idea that I can recreate the magic we had with Kayla. I just have to figure out how.
Catching Riggs in the kitchen as he heats up a pre-made steak bowl—thank God for food delivery services—I decide to make the most of the three minutes on the microwave.
“Are we seriously just gonna drop it? Like that?” I ask him for the dozenth time. He’s still no more receptive to my insistence that we need to do something. And yeah, I don’t know what, but there’s got to be something… more.