Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Oh, fuck that. No golden retrievers here.” He points at his chest, looking offended despite no one actually calling him a dog. “What’s the opposite of that? Pit bull? Velociraptor? Yeah, I’m a T. rex, baby.” To drive that point home, he curls his arms to his sides and drops his hands into claws. “Raawr.”
I can’t help but grin. Even when we lose and are pissed off to our cores, Shepherd can get you to smile. It’s one of the reasons he’s team captain.
He demonstrates another reason when he leans my way and says, “Don’t let Coach get to you. You weren’t slow. Those assholes were fast as fuck, slipping in and out of the zones like we were standing still. They upgraded more than we anticipated. We’ll get ’em next time.” He’s keeping his voice quiet so Coach doesn’t hear him disagree with his assessment. Loyal to Coach, but also to his teammates and friends.
Shepherd’s more golden retriever than he thinks, but I wouldn’t dream of commenting on it. He deserves to keep his illusion of dinosaur toughness the same way I wish I could pretend the other team was the problem tonight.
“Thanks, man, but Coach is right. I was off. I felt it from the drop and let it distract me. Kept feeling like I forgot something.” I shake my head, still not able to let the errant thought go.
“Try replaying everything leading up to the opener and then everything leading up to today. Maybe you missed something. Is it your mom’s birthday? Is the moon in retrograde? Or maybe it was a bad day and nothing more.” He lists out options like any or all of them might be a possibility, not judging any of them as stupid or unimportant. “Hell, maybe you shoulda taken a shit before the game.”
He laughs with that last one, and somehow, despite the loss, I do feel a little better.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him, meaning it sincerely. He dips his chin, smiling triumphantly. We might’ve lost, but he did one of his jobs tonight well. “Put that ice pack back on your face or Fritzi’s gonna KT tape it to you so tight it’ll squeeze your head like he did that melon.”
Shepherd blanches, peeking toward the front of the bus as he remembers Fritzi placing a watermelon between his thighs and squeezing until it split, popping open and oozing slush everywhere. “Ssshhh, he’ll hear you.”
But he puts the ice pack back and shoots me a grin.
I took Shepherd’s advice and Coach’s threat to heart over the last two days.
I’ve replayed my prep, watched the game, and had my conversation with Coach, where instead of bitching me out, he was caring and asked if I was okay. That was a million times worse than his usual yelling. But even after assuring him that I was top notch, I could see the doubt in his eyes.
At this point, I’m desperate and willing to do anything to fix my game. I need this season, need this team, need these playoffs. And so do the guys. I won’t let them down.
Which brings me to the door in front of me.
But am I actually willing to go this far to fix things? When the fix might be worse than the damage?
I stare at the bright-blue door, noticing that the brass number plate needs to be polished. Two-two-two. The only reason I knew where to come is because I helped Shepherd move the couch into this place two years ago.
When Joy moved in.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I turn to leave, but halfway down the hall, I stop. Running my fingers through my hair, I grip the strands tightly to punish myself for this ridiculousness. Mumbling to myself, I hiss, “Man the fuck up, Days. You can do this. You gotta do it. She’ll understand.”
She won’t. It’s absurd and offensive, but I’m desperate. So before I can talk myself out of it, I march back down the hallway and knock on the door three times.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
And hold my breath because Joy Barlowe is about to eviscerate me, leaving me field dressed and gutted on her living room rug, and I’m basically asking for it.
Chapter 7
Joy
I jump in shock as thundering booms jolt me off my couch, where I’ve been happily watching something besides sports for a few minutes.
Why the hell are the cops banging on my door?
A split second later, I realize it can’t be the police. It’d make no sense for them to be here. I’m not exactly the outstanding warrants type. Plus, Maple Creek falls under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff, and while he’s a dick with a serious case of misplaced anger against my sister because of his son, most of his deputies are the polite knock, knock type, not the SWAT team bang, bang sort.