Page 44 of Hart Breaker

“You’re not even the least bit concerned that if you piss me off, I’ll have you by the balls when it comes to your place on the team?” She pulls the pillow I had covered my face with off and tosses it.

“Three words,” I answer, rolling to my side and giving her my back. “Four-year contract.”

Lauren tries to move me, which is laughable. “I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help getting to sleep.”

“Well, she?—”

“Don’t care, Lauren. I don’t trust either one of you.” I slide to the other side of my bed, climb out, grab my pillow, and head to the bathroom. “Need you to be gone before I say some shit that I can’t take back.” I turn and look at her as I shut the door. “Not gonna lie, that shit hurts. But tomorrow, it won’t mean a thing.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Football doesn’t lie.”

“What does that even mean?” She laughs—yes, laughs—as I shut the door and lock it.

It takes a few minutes, and I don’t hear what is said between her and Boone, but she’s like a little terror out there, yapping at him like it’s his fault.

I feel bad for a second, but after watching him deal with Lily’s meltdown, I know he’s far better equipped to deal with it than I am. I’d likely cave, and that’s not happening.

The fact I actually feel my eyes damn near roll out of my head pisses me off almost as much as knowing I can finally do something I haven’t allowed myself to do since I saw her, and even though I’m fucking pissed, I know for certain the next time I’m in the shower, I’m going to be yanking it to a picture of Riley Mae Brooks in my head.

Fuck yes, I am.

Fuck yes.

But not until I’ve chilled the hell out, because I’m so pissed right now I’m likely to pull it off.

I hear a light tap on the door. “Coast is clear, Hart.”

I open the door and peek out.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Fucking hate lies,” I grumble as I walk to my bed and see my phone lying on the pillow, facedown. “Am I gonna need a new one?”

He sighs. “Not sure you knew this, but it’s made by Apple and not Wilson.”

I pick it up and, through the shattered screen, see that Lauren has taken a selfie. She’s giving the screen the finger and somehow managed to set it as my background.

“How the hell did she get into my phone?”

“Your passcode is 1-2-3-4,” he says, leaning against the wall.

“How do you know that?” I ask in an accusing manner.

“Hart,” he sighs, “you gotta come up with something better than that if you want to keep people out.”

“Nobody expects that.”

He arches a brow.

“Fine. Whatever.” I crawl my ass into bed.

“Gotta ask,” he starts.

“No, you don’t,” I respond as I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

“Not like I didn’t get the whole story already,” he says, and I feel my bed dip.

“I’m not talking about it.”

---