Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
That’s what I remind myself of when the urge to drink gets too strong.
It’s just hard to have people look at you like you’re a piece of shit, reminding you of what you already think of yourself. And I worried it would be the same here. So, it’s nice for the first person I encounter to look at me with nothing but a smile in his eyes.
I return his smile.
“I’m Patrick,” he tells me.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply.
He hands me back my ID badge. “If you need anything, like an umbrella”—he grins—“I’m your man.”
“Thank you,” I tell him and mean it. His kindness is appreciated. “Is my dad here yet?” I ask him.
“No,” Patrick replies. “He usually gets here around nine.”
I glance at the clock behind him on the wall. Eight thirty.
I’ve got half an hour to clean up and dry off before my dad arrives.
I want to look presentable.
Not that getting caught in the rain was my fault. But Dad has been bugging me about moving back home. He only lives a ten-minute drive from here, so I would get a lift in every day with him. And me getting caught in the rain like this will only give strength to his argument that I move back home.
I know he wants me away from the temptation of alcohol and all the bars in the city.
But I like living in New York, being so close to the art galleries and culture, and I love my apartment. It’s tiny, but it’s mine.
And, if I’m going to stay sober, I have to get used to being around alcohol.
My sponsor, Luke, says hiding from alcohol can actually have a detrimental effect. I think he’s right. I need to get used to the fact that it’s around but that it’s something I don’t do anymore.
Not that I’m actively going into bars anymore or browsing the liquor aisle in the supermarket, but I make sure to remind myself that it’s there, and it’s a part of life. Just not a part of mine anymore.
“Well, I’d better get inside and dry off,” I tell him, stepping back.
The rain has eased a little. It would now that I’m here.
Stupid weather.
“Have a good first day,” he tells me.
I thank him again and then speed-walk toward the building entrance.
Opening the door, I walk inside, dripping water all over the tiled floor.
There’s no one at the reception desk. Damn it. I have no clue where anything is. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. My dad might work here, but I’ve never had a reason to come here before today.
I was hoping there would be someone—preferably female—who might be able to point me in the direction of, at the very least, a hand dryer.
I glance around for a sign of a restroom, but nothing. So, I start walking, going straight ahead through the lobby.
My heels click on the tiled floor, echoing loudly. I have the urge to take off my wet shoes, but I really don’t want to walk around barefoot.
I walk past the staircase and down the hallway. I see a sign that shows the restrooms are on the left.
Bingo.
Although I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do because there’s no way a hand dryer is going to dry my clothes, but it’s better than nothing.
I locate the restroom, which is empty, and—shit! Effing crap! No hand dryer. Only paper towels.
As I turn, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Christ almighty.
I look a mess. My makeup has practically washed off. Thank God for waterproof mascara because it’s the only thing on my face that’s stayed intact.
My brown hair is a wet, stringy mess.
My white shirt is clinging to my body, and you can totally see my lace bra through it.
My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I realize that Patrick could see my bra through my shirt.
I can’t start my first day, meeting the guys on the team, looking like this.
I need clothes. Even if it’s just a different shirt. I can live in damp jeans and panties if I have to but not a wet shirt, showing off my chest.
They must have team shirts here. Anything is better than my soaking wet top that I’m currently wearing. I look like I’m entering in the world’s first solo wet shirt competition, and I really don’t want to embarrass myself—or my dad—any more than I have already.
And, wearing a team shirt, at least I’ll look committed to the team.
I almost laugh out loud at that thought.
I don’t like football. At all.
Since I’m the coach’s daughter, people assume I love the sport. But it’s because of football that I had to move around a lot while growing up. That my dad wasn’t around much. That my mom—
I cut off that thought.
It wasn’t my dad’s fault. My mom was sick. And the choices she’d made were hers and hers alone.