Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I need to comfort her.
But I know I can’t just grab her the way I want.
She looks down at our hands as I thread my fingers through hers, stroking my thumb along the back of her thumb. Her eyes fall shut once more, and her shoulders droop, almost like she’s waving her white flag.
A lesser man would capitalize on her state, but not me.
I’m here for her.
In a low voice, I ask, “What else happened?”
Her lips tremble, and in the smallest voice I think I’ve ever heard come out of her, she tells me, “She said that with my issues, I’ll never make it on the air.” She hiccups. “That no one would be able to trust me to memorize everything and say it perfectly on air.”
Okay, so I’ve lost my fair share of championships, play-offs, and tournaments. I didn’t get picked for Team USA the first year I was eligible, and I only made it as an alternate when Louis made the team my second time. All that to say, the anger and disappointment I felt then have nothing on the hellfire that is burning through me now. I have to internally tell myself to breathe in and out. To not go on a rampage to make this professional—I use that term loosely—take back everything she said about Ambrosia.
“I know it’s been, like, three days,” she insists, her voice breaking with each word and sending me deeper into a fit of fucking rage. “But it—”
“It’s fucking bullshit,” I grit out, and her wide eyes cut to mine. “Who the hell is she to say anything like that to you? Just because it’s called a disability doesn’t mean it holds you back. Yeah, it may be harder, but fuck if you don’t work for it. How dare she?”
Ambrosia’s eyes burn into mine, hesitation and fear in her whiskey eyes. “She’s my professor. What if she’s right?”
“She’s not,” I say simply, my hand tightening around hers. “She’s being a fucking cunt because your adviser probably called her on her shit. Have you had issues with her before?”
She hesitates but then nods. “She didn’t think I was good enough to go for my master’s, but I thought it was because—” She pauses once more, and I wait with bated breath. She looks everywhere but at me, and I hate that she doesn’t just speak freely. I want her to trust me, to know I have her. I feel like I have done so much to prove that to her. I could take this as a learning moment and walk away, knowing I tried, but I can’t.
I physically can’t.
Not until I know in my soul she’s not interested.
I know she doesn’t like pretty words, but I say them anyway. “Ambrosia, talk to me. Lean on me, trust me.”
She blinks, her tears flicking from her long lashes. “I’m scared.”
I nod. “I am too.” A tear falls, and I catch it. “I care for you, a lot, and I want to be there for you.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” I say, cutting her off. “Let’s figure this out. Together.”
Her eyes hold my gaze, so dark, so glossy, leaving me breathless. To the point that I feel helpless because I don’t know if she’ll trust me. If she’ll let me help her. As her eyes search mine, I hope she sees how much I care. How deeply I care and that I’m not just bullshitting her.
This isn’t about her body.
This isn’t about my cock.
My history or hers.
This is about making sure she never doubts who she is.
Her sweet little lip trembles, and she whispers, “I dated her son.”
The relief I feel is short-lived before my brows basically touch, and then I remember Dillon Poncy. He graduated two years ago and played for the Bellevue Bullies for four years. He rode the bench most of the time, but he acted like he was the star player.
I had to remind him a few times who owned the spot, and now, I may call up his bitch ass and tell him to come get his fucking mom.
“Dillon?”
She won’t look at me but nods her confirmation. “It was well over two years ago, but we dated for like three months. I don’t know why I am telling you this. I am so embarrassed.”
“Why? He ain’t shit.”
Ambrosia snorts. “He really wasn’t,” she agrees. “I just don’t want you to think less of me.”
Her eyes are so full of fear and sadness that it leaves me breathless. “For dating a guy? Ambrosia, I’ve never dated anyone, only slept with them. At least you tried for the connection.”
Her eyes search mine, and a smile plays on her lips. “Tell me more about that.”
I shake my head. “Good try. Tell me why you’re embarrassed about dating him.”
She chuckles, but it’s empty and soulless. A sound I don’t like at all. With a long exhale, she admits, “I was enamored with him since he played hockey and enjoyed talking game. At first, that is. Then, when he learned about my dyslexia, he started to treat me like I couldn’t think for myself. He started talking over me and telling me that I was wrong when I knew I wasn’t. When I’d go to look it up to prove it to him, he’d laugh at me and start singing the Jeopardy theme song like I was on the clock to get the right answer. I’d get so overwhelmed, I’d just stop.”