Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Head bent, I fuss with the knot of my left skate, tightening the laces until they bite into my fingers. Pull harder than necessary, like if I can cinch everything down tight enough, I’ll keep the rest of my life from unraveling.
I set my foot up on the bench and study the blade.
There’s a new nick along the edge.
I run my thumb carefully along the steel, testing the sharpness. It’s fine. Serviceable, but not perfect.
I should get them sharpened.
I set my skate back on the floor, tapping my phone screen like maybe it needs encouragement.
“Get a fucking grip,” I lecture myself. “She’s working.”
A pair of legs stops in front of me, blocking my view of the floor. Athletic pants. Well-worn sneakers.
I raise my eyes.
“Bishop.”
Storm.
He doesn’t look like his easy-going self. There’s no grin. Hands stuffed in his pockets, already rocking back on his heels.
He looks… uneasy.
Like he has to take a massive shit.
“Hey.” I give him a slight smile, continuing to fiddle with my skate. “What’s up?”
I’m met with silence as Storm takes the next few moments to scratch the side of his neck.
Silence stretches long enough that I raise my brows.
“What?” I prompt.
He inhales. “I’m really not sure how to tell you this—or if I should be telling Kennedy instead?” He rambles. “This whole situation is so fucked.”
What is he talking about?
I’m not following. “Eh?”
He huffs out a laugh that isn’t one of amusement. “So hypothetically speaking—if someone didn’t realize that someone else didn’t know something, what would happen?”
I wish he was making sense.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Say what you want to say.”
This fucking guy.
“Don’t hate me.” He cringes, ball sac most likely a shriveled mess inside his shorts. “I might have accidentally sort of told Juliette about the Declan thing?”
I stare at him.
“The Declan thing,” I deadpan.
“You know.” He switches tactics. “The Bailey situation.”
I close my eyes.
Press my fingers to my temples. “God dammit, Storm.”
“I know, I know.” He groans. “I’m the worst.”
The humor in the moment doesn’t mask the sick feeling crawling up my spine.
Because this isn’t funny.
Not even a little.
“Look,” he says defensively when I don’t immediately respond. “I figured she already knew! I mean—come on. You catch your teammate with your girlfriend, then you start screwing his sister? It’s not exactly subtle, Bishop.”
He’s not wrong.
He royally fucked my plan to tell her first!
Again—not his fault.
“Fuck!” I explode, launching my helmet across the locker room. It smacks into a row of stalls and bounces to the floor. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
Heads snap up.
I couldn’t give a shit.
Storm doesn’t flinch. He patiently waits me out, arms crossed, giving me space like I’m a ticking fucking time-bomb he doesn’t want to piss off any further.
“You done?” he asks carefully, one brow raised.
“No,” I snap.
Then I drag both hands through my hair and pace three steps before turning back.
“Jesus Christ, I was going to tell her tonight.” I swear I was.
“Bro—take a deep breath.”
I glare at him, energy draining out of me.
I drop my head and sink back into the bench, elbows braced on my knees. My hands slide up and cradle my skull, fingers digging into my scalp like I can physically hold my thoughts in place.
For a second, I sit here immobile.
Breathing.
Stewing.
Trying not to implode.
“What happened?” I lift my head and look at him. “Walk me through it, word for word. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I don’t know—I was up at corporate to say ‘hey, what’s up?’”
“You went up there specifically to say hello to her? What were you doing, flirting?”
He shrugs. “I mean—yeah.”
Oh my god, this guy. He’s going to be the death of me if I don’t kill him first.
“You decided to flirt with the girl I’m seeing,” I say flatly.
“What? It’s basically window shopping,” he counters. “Not only that, we’re not supposed to be banging anyone from corporate.”
“Storm…”
“What? She’s gorgeous.”
I rub a hand down my face.
“You have the survival instincts of a houseplant,” I mutter.
He ignores me. “Anyway, I’m up there, I’m saying hello. Squishing this toy thing she has on her desk, telling her she looks wholesome.”
Wow. I bet she loved that.
“Can you stay on task—get to the part where her brother and I come up.”
“Right. That part.” He laughs, like this is a story we’re recounting fondly over beers. “So, I say something random about the air in the locker room being weird and it’s because of you and Kennedy.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“And then?” I press impatiently.
“And then I said something like, I think he walked into Kennedy’s apartment and found them fucking.” He gestures vaguely. “Except I didn’t use the word fucking. Juliette isn’t into cursing.”
Oh.
My.
God.
“You said that?”
He shrugs again. “I mean—didn’t that happen?”
“Yes, you asshole, but that’s not the point!”
He rubs his jaw. “She asked why things have been tense. I answered. It’s not like I fabricated anything.”
“No,” I snap. “You summarized it in the worst possible way.”