Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I’m tired of their kids doing the same.
I squeeze the copper key in my fist as I charge down the rust-colored clay track, the green field at the center glistening with rain as the wheels in my head spin and spin.
It’s a key to Fox Hill.
It’s a key to a private party.
It’s a key to a lot of private parties, I’m sure, and not all of them hosted by Garrett Ames’s idiot, teenage son who doesn’t have the good sense to sin with people who don’t have a motive to hurt him.
Think, Liv. Think. How do I use this?
The sharp key cuts into my palm, but I just squeeze it tighter, seeing them in my mind. Seeing them lose and seeing us win.
Seeing Clay watch me walk away from her.
The rain picks up again, a little harder, and I feel drops pour down my legs and inside my white tank top, my black sports bra underneath seeping through my wet shirt.
There are usually a few cars in Marymount’s parking lot on Saturday. Maintenance crews come to fix things when the students aren’t here, teachers show up to get work done undisturbed, or the team sports need the extra time to practice. But the whole place is abandoned today, the heavy clouds promising more shitty weather to come.
I have no idea why I’m here. I’m not hip on showing up to this place when I have to, let alone when I don’t.
Sticking the key back into my pocket, I dig out the other key, the one to Dallas’s old Mustang that the jerk let me take today, and fall to a walk as I head off the track and into the parking lot. He should just let me have the car. It sits on the street, collecting rust most days, but he’s still under the impression he’ll eventually have enough money to restore it.
“Clay, I’m not practicing in this!” someone yells.
I dart my eyes up, seeing Clay, Krisjen, and Amy in the parking lot. I pause mid-step. Great.
I keep walking for my car, noticing Amy holding a raincoat over her head and scowling. Clay pulls lacrosse gear out of the back of her baby blue, 1972 Ford Bronco convertible, seemingly unconcerned with the rain drenching her black leggings and sports bra.
She doesn’t deserve that car.
“Let’s go to the indoor center,” Krisjen whines. “Please?”
“No, I wanna get dirty.” Clay closes the tailgate and drops her stick to the ground, raindrops bouncing off the pavement around her bare feet.
“Clay, come on,” Amy snips. “It’s cold. And it’s Saturday. I want to go shopping. I snagged my mom’s black card.”
I walk past them, not looking away when Clay sees me and holds my eyes.
The knot in my stomach is there, as it always is when I anticipate bullshit from her, but so is the skip in my heartbeat when I look at her.
I head to my car a couple spaces down, pulling my shirt over my head and wringing it out.
“I love you,” Amy says, “but I’m just going to slip and break my ass out there.”
“Get back here,” Clay demands.
“And don’t pull the captain card either,” Amy tells her, already walking away, “I’ll see you tonight.”
She walks off, and I see Krisjen follow her, giving Clay a shrug. “She’s got her mom’s black card.”
Like limitless shopping is too much of a temptation to resist, and the fact that it’s fraud is completely lost on them.
“You leave me alone out here and you owe me,” Clay yells, “and owing me favors is painful.”
“Meet you at your house at seven,” Krisjen calls out, jumping into Amy’s car.
I hear the engine start and the tires screech as Amy peels out of the flooded parking lot. I slide the key into the lock on the door, slowly turning it as Clay’s eyes set fire to my back.
“Leaving?”
Chills cascade down my arms.
“Pity,” she says. “You need the practice, too.”
Just get in the car, I tell myself. People like her hate to be ignored.
“But it’s always the shit talkers who don’t bring it anyway.” I hear a shuffle, and her alarm chirps, signaling she’s locked her car. “I scored two goals the last game. Not you.”
I open my door, almost smiling at her effort. She scored two goals, because half the opposing team was down with strep throat and they were playing their backup goalie.
And I ran my ass down the field and intercepted both those balls before shooting them over to her so she could score. In four seasons, she’s never known a win without me.
I stare at her back as she goes, the car key cutting into my palm so deep I think it draws blood. Reaching inside the car, I grab my stick, slam the door, and follow her. She’s gonna get a taste of what it’s like without me on her side.