Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
They turn back to their phones, and I slink away, cheeks burning.
None of the other women are looking my way, but I can’t fight the sense that they heard everything. And that they’ll be gossiping about it at their earliest convenience…
My phone buzzes. I grab it like a lifeline.
Makena: Update: Raccoon is now giving birth on the counter.
Makena: Elly is crying because she feels bad that it’s becoming a mom without a raccoon midwife to hold its hand.
Makena: I’m crying because birth is gross and scary, and I’m once again pretty sure I never want children.
Makena: ETA to the stadium: Never. This is where we live now. In this parking lot. With the moaning raccoon and her afterbirth and her slimy little babies. Waiting for the animal control guy. From now until the end of time. Again, I am so sorry. How are you? Have you made friends? Frederica is really nice. She’s the one with the really curly brown hair and fantastic laugh.
As I slide into a seat not far from the older woman clique, I type back—Everything’s good here. I’m so sorry to hear you’re still in the thick of it, but don’t worry about me. I’m fine.
I’m not fine.
My throat is tight. My insides are in knots. And I’m not sure if I should be ashamed of myself for being a jerk, who doesn’t appreciate her privilege, or if Sierra and Luce were just looking for a reason to attack.
I’m still wrestling with that as the game starts. I focus on Nix as he takes the ice, willing myself to shift into “supportive girlfriend” mode. The less I think about my own drama right now, the better. And I do want Nix to have a great season opener. I may not be a huge hockey fan, but I am a huge fan of wanting good things for my friends in all aspects of their lives.
Nix is becoming a friend. For real. A friend I fantasize about pinning me to my mattress far too often, but a friend, nevertheless.
And damn…he’s good. Really good. He’s fast, strong, and highly skilled with a stick, obviously, but it’s more than that. His intelligence is there, too, in the way he’s aware of everything going on around him. The way he seems to be able to predict what the other players are going to do next.
I’m actually getting into the game, my pulse picking up as I lean forward in my seat, when my phone pings again. At first, I assume it’s Makena, but it’s not.
It’s a DM notification on Instagram.
From Sierra…
Guess she found me on socials, after all.
Spine stiffening, I click on it, opening the message to see a picture of me, taken from behind a few minutes ago. I’m hunched over my phone, reading my texts, my slumped posture making my blouse sag forward in a way that isn’t flattering. At all.
Just FYI, you should tuck your shirt in and wear a padded bra or something. Luce wanted to add this to her ‘fashion don’ts’ post for today, but I told her she couldn’t. You’re already going through it with your ex marrying that younger woman, and people saying it’s weird that you’re dating someone so much younger than you. You don’t need the entire internet to see how saggy your boobs look in that shirt, too. You’re welcome!! Love and light.
I stand, squeezing my phone hard enough to make my fingers ache. I head back across the box, murmuring as I pass the couch where the vicious little beasties are sitting, “Thanks so much.”
“Sure thing!” Sierra chirps, not looking up from her screen.
“Yeah,” Luce says, barely suppressed laughter in her tone. “We’re here to help.”
Help.
Right.
I wonder if they actually believe that? If not, how do they justify being so nasty? I mean, give me a fucking break. I apologized. Sincerely. And I never intended to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Clearly, I overestimated my ability to navigate this particular social maze without my friends beside me for backup. I should have bailed on joining the WAGs the second Makena texted. I should have texted Nix and told him I would watch from the cheap seats or from a bar down the street or something.
Or lied and said I was having explosive diarrhea and wouldn’t be able to make it to the game, after all. The embarrassment of telling the man I’m sort of sleeping with that my ass is exploding would have been preferable to what I’m feeling right now. Hell, actual explosive D with a side of food-poisoning sweats would be better than this.
I barely make it past the guard at the entrance to the private box before my eyes fill with tears.
I keep my head down, aiming myself toward the exit, wishing I hadn’t parked three blocks away. But at the time, I’d assumed I would be leaving after the game, and I was stressed at the thought of battling traffic so close to the arena. I never imagined I’d be bolting before the first period was over.