Page 4 of Tell Me Lies

Closing out of the Word document, I drag my hand over my face. When I look at the calendar on my wall with the black Expo marker circle around today’s date, I sigh because, months ago, I made this grand plan that today would be the day I finally got my shit together and wrote some words.

“I guess today isn’t the day I’m going to finally write this damn book.” I throw my head back, closing my eyes and racking my brain on what it might take to get me out of this writer’s block, but nothing comes to mind.

Pushing myself to my feet, I head toward the kitchen and open the refrigerator. Grabbing a White Claw, I crack it open and take a long swig. Pressing the cool can to my warm cheek, I shake my head at myself.

My readers are waiting. And my publicist has just about had enough of my shit. And I can’t blame her. She can only postquotes from my old work so many times before people slowly lose interest. I’ll get it together though; I just need some time to figure out what’s stopping me from being able to crank the words out the way that I used to.

Or … any words at all.

My phone makes a dinging noise, and I pull it from my pocket to see my friend Poppy’s name.

I met Poppy over a year ago at a kickboxing class. Neither of us had ever done it before, and somehow, we hit it off instantly. Poppy can come off kind of hard, and she’s known to be a smart-ass, but she has the kindest heart. She’s also married to a professional hockey player, who is the center for the New England Bay Sharks here in Portland. Even though her husband is loaded and she is a big-deal dancer, you’d never know it because they are both extremely humble.

Poppy: How goes the writing?

Poppy: You crushing that word count? Making that keyboard your bitch?

Poppy: Is that author slang? Or do I just sound stupid?

Me: Not so much. Took a break for a beverage. Now, I’m thinking about cheese-stuffed breadsticks from Maria’s.

Poppy: Say less.

Poppy: I should tell you to sit your ass back down and write, but I’m a selfish, hungry bitch. I want some of those meatballs.

Me: Meet me there in twenty?

Poppy: 10-4. Over and out.

Me: You do realize we aren’t communicating through walkie-talkies, right?

Poppy: Don’t ruin the moment. See you in fifteen.

Me: I said twenty.

Of course, she sends back the clock emoji, telling me to hurry my ass up. Looking down at the clothes I slept in, I head for my room. One thing I’ve always loved about being a writer is thatI can stay in my pajamas all day long. Only soon, I might have toactuallywash my hair and look presentable if I can’tactuallywrite a damn story.

Dressing hurriedly, I drag a brush through my long, dark hair and pull it into a ponytail. As I head toward the door, I shoot my computer a glare.

“This isn’t over,” I grumble before opening the door. Because … cheese-stuffed breadsticks.

“Sterns,” Coach Jacobs calls out just before practice ends. “Haul your ass on over here.”

Skating toward him, I pull my helmet off. “Yeah, Coach?”

His dark brown, almost-black hair is starting to show some gray through the temples. Whenever we bust his balls about it, he says it’s our fault for stressing him the fuck out all the time. He loves us though; this team and the men on it mean the world to this dude.

“Maddie leaves in three days. Last I knew, you still haven’t found a replacement for her.” His gray eyes remain on the ice as Ryder Cambridge, our team’s left winger, runs through some drills. “We don’t need a repeat of three years ago. You need to figure out something for Amy. And fast.”

“Yeah. I, uh …” I stumble over my words, dragging my hand up the back of my head. “No one has been the right fit. And I’m not trying to sound like a cocky douchebag, but when they find out it’s my kid they’ll be nannying for, they get weird.” I swallow. “Reallyweird.”

“Preseason starts in a month, Sterns. I love Amy, but I can’t have one of my strongest players scrambling to find a sitter before each game. You and Maddie need to choose someone.” His eyes shift to mine, and he looks at me in warning. “Understood?”

“I get it, Coach. I do.” I lightly lean on my stick. “But this is Amelia we’re talking about. My kid.” I cringe. “She already gotthe short end of the stick, coming out and only having me as a parent. I can’t just leave her with some stranger.”

He looks at me for a beat before he reaches over and clasps my shoulder. “I know, son. With three daughters of my own, I get that. I respect the hell out of it too. But I can’t look at this from a father’s standpoint. I need to look at it as the guy who’s supposed to win the Bay Sharks some games.”

“Copy that.” I nod. “I’ll get it figured out before Maddie leaves.”

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