Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
My chest burned so fiercely I pressed a hand against the ache to try to soothe it, because I knew I couldn’t turn that down.
If I knew one thing about my ex-husband, it was that he was a lazy piece of shit. The only reason he continued to harass me was because it was easy to do so. I was right down the street. I still needed his help to care for our child.
But if I could change those two facts, I knew he’d leave us alone.
That made my chest ache even more, because what kind of monster would want to take a child from his father?
But I’d rather be that kind of monster than the one who lets her son witness his father abuse his mother.
I hated that word. I hated the feelings it stirred up inside me, like I was a victim when I didn’t sign up to be one.
But regardless of the fact that I’d managed to get a divorce, I still couldn’t fully escape him — not when we had a kid together. The courts, at least, had the mercy to set strict guidelines in place for when he could see Sebastian and for how long.
He’d never laid a hand on Sebastian. He doted on his son, actually, which was the only reason I tolerated co-parenting with him at all.
And unless I had proof of his abuse, there was no reason for the court to restrict visitation. Even if I did have proof, it might not even matter. Judges tended to look the other way as long as the child was okay.
Proof.
That was fucking laughable.
How did you prove your ex-husband knew just how to intimidate you, with his words, his loud voice, his towering over you? How did you prove gaslighting and manipulation?
How did you prove that a seemingly kind, professional, caring veterinarian was actually a mean, grotesque sonofabitch?
In the court’s eyes, Doctor Marshall Hearst was a stand-up gentleman and Sebastian’s father, and that meant he had a right to his son just as much as I did.
A heavy sigh left my chest, and then resolution sank its claws in deep.
Kyle once used me and then left me behind.
Maybe it was time to return the favor.
Kyle
My phone buzzed with a text right as I pulled into the Badgers high school parking lot. I’d somehow survived rookie minicamp in May, but now I had about a month to get into the best shape possible before training camp started.
Just because I’d been drafted into the NFL and received a sick signing bonus didn’t mean I’d be taking that field come kickoff.
I almost assuredly had a spot on the team, but I wanted a starting spot. I wanted playing time. I wanted stats that broke every Seahawks record. I wanted to put up such monstrous numbers every season I played that I had a spot waiting for me in the Hall of Fame at the end of it all.
It wasn’t enough to be here.
I had to be the best.
So, I’d struck a deal with a local state championship high school to let me use their field and equipment for training. Braden and I had gone in on it together, both of us keen to show up in the best shape we could on day one of training camp.
Braden Lock and I played at North Boston University together, four years of grueling work that led us to a championship. We were a part of the best seasons that school had seen since the 90s.
I would miss it.
At NBU, we were serious, sure — but we also partied like our lives depended on it. We threw massive ragers at our team house, affectionally known as The Pit, and it wasn’t strange for us to end up in bed with a girl or two at the end of the night.
Sometimes we rolled into practice hungover or still drunk, but a quick puke on the sideline would set us straight and we’d still be able to perform.
That wouldn’t be the case in the NFL.
It didn’t matter that I was a beast in college. I was nothing here in Seattle. I was a rodent. Even at six-foot-seven and two-hundred-and-thirty pounds, I was too skinny, too small, too new.
I had an iPad stacked with the team’s playbook and film from the past three years to study, on top of a rigorous training schedule to get my body into shape.
Oh, and somewhere in there, I needed to find a place to live, too.
I pulled my phone from my pocket when I parked, chest sparking at the sight of an unfamiliar number. It was already being buried under a slew of social media notifications. I’d built a reputation for being active online, giving my fans an inside look at the life of a college — and now pro — football player.