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)
A few backtracking steps and I show her my bedroom.
“Your bed looks inviting,” she says.
I look at it again, imagining what I’d think if I’d never seen it, slept in it, or spent lazy mornings sprawled out across its king-size width. Truthfully, I haven’t given it much thought. “I let my mom pick out everything. I’m not really into that stuff.”
“You say that so confidently, as if it’s not a car dealership–size red flag.” Her brows are lifted like she’s teasing, but she might have a point.
“When I bought this place, it felt like a huge risk. I was smart and didn’t overbuy for what I make with the Moose, but there was this looming question of, What if I get cut tomorrow? So, if it were up to me, I would’ve bought the cheapest shit I could find and probably ended up with dollar-store sheets and folding chairs in the living room.” I grin, remembering my mom’s trip to Maple Creek when I closed on this place and how proud she’d been of me. “Mom made sure I was setting up a home to come back to. Told me it was good luck because if I lived transient, I’d be transient. She was right.” I look around my living room and the couch I was sitting on not ten minutes ago. “This is home. I have roots here now. The team, the town, the people. It’s home.”
“What would you do if a major team came calling and you had to move?” Joy wonders.
“I’d go, obviously. But I’d keep this place as home base. I’d have to.” I haven’t really thought about that in a while. The less likely a pro contract gets, the less often I think about it, but it feels strange to not be hustling for that dream.
“You could rent it out as an Airbnb and make bank,” Joy suggests. “People would pay extra if they knew it was the infamous Dalton Days’s place.”
I chuckle. “You trying to get rid of me already?”
“Nah, but I have faith in you. You’re having your best season ever, thanks to me.” The light in her eyes tells me that she’s waiting for me to argue, ready for the banter and anticipating my curse word–filled response so she can verbally spar back.
But she’s right.
“Absolutely thanks to you.”
Her grin morphs into a surprised smile as her eyes soften. “Your talent, hard work, and willingness to throw your body in front of a bullet-like object help a little,” she concedes.
I hold up my finger and thumb an inch apart, grinning slightly. “A tiny bit.”
Chapter 13
Joy
Your place or mine?
I stare at the text from Dalton, debating. I’m playing with fire. My only saving grace will be to keep Dalton at arm’s distance. Or at least I hope that’s enough to save me.
FaceTime.
It’s not a question or an option. It’s a take it or leave it offer that I send knowing he’ll take it. He has to.
You okay?
No, I’m not. After hanging up last night, I was fine for approximately five minutes when there was a pure, quiet calm in my head. And then reality clicked in and I started freaking out. I contemplated calling Hope. If anyone can talk me off a ledge, it’s her, and I would like to get her take on the situation, but if Shep so much as looks at her sideways, he’ll know. Not because she’ll spill—she would never do that to me—but because her face is an open book.
But that’s not what I tell Dalton.
Yeah. FaceTime seems like a better decision than in-person.
I expect him to argue that point with some crude description of what might be “better” if we’re face-to-face, or try to convince me that this is no big deal, that we’re “fine” and “know what this is” like he said last night. Hell, maybe I want him to talk me into this so that when it all goes awry, I can blame him, which is shitty, but closer to the truth than I’d like to admit.
Bad decisions make good stories.
God, he’s like a walking, talking, testosterone-fueled version of me. I swear I’ve used a similar line on Hope to get her to do stupid shit with me. But while what he said might be true, bad decisions can also ruin everything. I don’t think either of us should take that chance.
We need to be smart.
All right.
I can almost hear him sighing when he typed that.
So that’s what we do over the next couple of weeks—stick with phone call peekaboos where we touch ourselves because it’s the safer, smarter option that still gets us both what we desperately want.
And if it was only that, maybe I wouldn’t feel like things are so risky. But it’s not only a quick jack-off for luck on the eve of his games. We’ve drifted into something more, something I can’t—and won’t—put a name to. Mostly because I don’t know what to call it.