Page 45 of The Longshot

My family.

My team.

My coach.

And I know that may sound like a lot, but in my eyes, it’s not. I wish everyone could see who I really am, but sometimes, it’s scary to be yourself—not because it’s difficult or unnatural, but because once you’re yourself, there’s nothing left to hide behind.

You see when I’m “Wilks”, I know that that’s not the real me.

It’s an illusion.

A front.

So, if someone were to say, “I don’t like Wilks,” or any other snide remark, if I'm being honest, it doesn’t hurt as badly.

Why?

Because it’s a mask.

It’s the bandage over the wound.

It’s the barrier that protects me from falling victim to the criticism of others.

Sure, I haven’t had a chance to get to know Chelsie better than I did at the start of this week, but I know more than anyone that sometimes the most special things in life take time, patience, and, most of all, determination. Lucky for her, despite my faults, those traits I don’t lack.

I continue to confidently stride my way down the pavement with that thought in mind, hopeful that the second I walk into the bakery, the first words I’ll hear come from Chelsie’s mouth will be, “Gary, I’d love to go out with you,” and not what I do hear which is?—

“Because I’ve moved on. I’m seeing someone else, and here he is now.”

What?

I can feel all the oxygen escape the room from her remark. Not even the intoxicating scent of the fresh baked goods makes me want to inhale a breath.

Did she just insinuate that I’m her boyfriend?

I attempt to process what exactly is going on, but I can’t, given that the only real thing I’m trying to comprehend is why the blue in her eyes has faded.

Where has that beautiful smile that once illuminated her face gone? It’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, what’s left behind in her eyes is this deep-rooted sense of fear… panic.

She’s scared.

Why is she scared?

I have to force myself to look away in order to meet the eyes of the man who’s stood far too close to her for my liking.

Immediately, we meet each other's gaze with mutually unpleasant stares, and from just the look alone, I know we’re about a sentence away from hating each other.

“Excuse me?” I hear his voice for the first time as he surveys me up and down. “You mean to tell me that this tosser here is your boyfriend?” He looks back over at Chelsie for confirmation.

Before she can so much as blink, I’m quick to retaliate. No one calls me a tosser and gets away with it.

“And who the fuck are you exactly?” I show not an ounce of restraint when it comes to taking a step toward him, with an inflated sense of anger in my tone.

He doesn’t cower in the slightest. “Who the fuck am I?” He laughs as he simultaneously clenches his fists and jaw, attempting to tower over me. “I’m her fucking boyfriend. That's who.”

I want to retaliate instantly. God, there’s so much I’d love to say to this prick, but before I do, I peer over at Chelsie, desperate for direction on how to proceed. As if she was waiting, she flashes me a pleading look that begs me to please go along with this facade.

She wants me to pretend? No problem, baby. Here comes the performance of a lifetime.