Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“Let me drive you.”
I nodded and followed him. Dad had driven me here and would surely be pissed that I didn’t wait for him, but I couldn’t stay here a second longer. Outside, I kept my distance from Lachlan in case we were being watched. He unlocked a black two-door BMW, and as we sat inside and I clicked my seatbelt on, I was thankful for the dark tints.
“What happened in there?”
“I can’t, Lach.” I bit my lip and hoped he’d read my face well enough to know I wasn’t okay but also didn’t want to talk about it. He sighed heavily and started to drive.
“Why did you quit?”
My eyes snapped to him. “What?”
“Soccer,” he said. “I can’t imagine quitting. I mean, a fucking plaque? That’s a big deal.”
“Dad probably paid for it.”
“No, he didn’t.” He eyed me.
My response was a shrug.
“At least your dad was there. Mine probably would’ve only showed up for a photo op,” he said.
I looked at the side of his face for a long moment. Maybe we had more in common than I thought. Not that having awful fathers was the best thing to bond over, but it was something. I was just grateful for the change in subject. I didn’t want to talk about soccer, but I could talk about hating my dad all day.
“You really think my father went for something other than a photo op?” I asked after a moment. “He’s a fucking politician. Photo ops are on his to-do list’s top five.”
He chuckled. He had the sexiest laugh I’d ever heard. His eyes lit up as he glanced over, and butterflies started to come alive inside me. I looked away quickly.
“My father thinks throwing money at us is the key to everything,” he said. “As if money can cover the bill for absence.”
“Are you sure we’re not related?” I asked, looking at him.
He visibly cringed. “We are definitely NOT related, Lyla James.”
I bit my lip and looked out the window again to keep from laughing. “Maybe we should start a ‘poor little rich kids with absent asshole fathers club.’”
“I’m not rich. Well, I guess I am to some people’s standards. Definitely not yours,” he said, shooting an amused look in my direction. “But I’ll be part of your club anyway.”
“Well, now you’re going to have to try out.”
He laughed. “What do I have to do in the tryouts? Cry to prove my father fucked me up emotionally by never showing up for me?”
“Or not cry,” I said. “I guess it depends on who makes the rules.”
“Hopefully, it’s not you.”
“Rude.” I frowned. “Why not me? I just came up with the club.”
“You don’t like people, so you’d probably be the only one in the damn thing,” he said. “And you’re a harsh judge. No one will ever live up to your expectations.”
“Wow.” I kept my eyes on the road. “That’s. . .pretty accurate.”
He laughed again, shaking his head.
"Maybe we should have a pretend try-out here, so you don't waste your time trying out," I added. He bit his lip; eyes still amused as he shook his head and looked at the road ahead.
"What does this pretend try-out consist of?"
"Any sob story." I shrugged.
He bit the side of his lips and narrowed his eyes slightly as he thought about it. Finally, after a few moments, he spoke. "On my eighth birthday, my dad was supposed to take me to a hockey game. It was the Bruins against the Maple Leaves," he said. "My mom brought it up all the time. She thought this would redeem him from not coming to any of my games that season."
"He didn't show up?" I whispered.
"He didn't even call." He stopped at a red light and glanced at me.
I felt the air go out of my lungs for a moment. I wasn't sure if the pain was apparent on my face, but I felt it. I thought about him as a little boy–probably the cutest fucking boy–and my heart broke for him. I was okay with my father being too busy for me. I'd even made peace with my mother, following him around everywhere and leaving me behind all the time. But I hated that for Lachlan. He may have been a player and an asshole, but I knew he was a good guy. Besides, no kid deserves to be given broken promises by someone who was supposed to protect them and show them how the world worked.
“Your dad sucks,” I said after a moment.
He laughed as he started driving again. We were quiet for a moment before he broke the silence.
“You know my favorite part about Coach Bev’s speech?” he asked quietly as he parked at the curb, in front of my apartment building.
“Let me guess, the heart of gold part.”
“Close second.” His lip twitched.
“What part?” I asked. I despised guessing games.