Page 7 of The Foul Out

Long ago, I’d learned not to lie to her. She was smarter than me, after all. “Egg.”

She cocked her head, her red pigtails wobbling. “Who put egg on the door?”

Likely a random person in the building. I’d lived through more than one big loss for a Boston team. Tonight would be a rough night. All over the city, people would riot. Passion was a big emotion. And the fanatical Revs fans had it in spades. The Revs sticker logo on our door, courtesy of my daughter, had probably made us a target.

“Don’t worry,” I said as I ushered her in. “I’ll clean it up.”

Quickly, I changed Sam and got him into bed. The poor kid didn’t even open his eyes. Once he was tucked in, I got started getting Piper settled. It took longer than usual, and when I came out and found my phone in the kitchen, I had three missed calls, all from unknown numbers.

For the love of God, please don’t let some random website have sold my information to the world.

Two years ago, I’d received endless texts and phone calls for months. Jace had been sure I was hiding something because of all the unknown numbers. At least he was no longer around to make a bad situation worse again.

I sighed. I needed to get over my anger at my ex-husband. He had been trying lately. Jace struggled with Piper, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her and Sam. We had to co-parent for the rest of our lives, so letting the past, the lies, the betrayal, the hurtgo, was in my best interest. If only it weren’t so difficult to put into action.

I set the phone on the counter and opened the fridge. I needed a hard cider after such a long day. As I grasped the bottle, pain shot up my arm.

Yanking my hand back, making the bottle wobble on the shelf of the fridge, I opened and closed my fist. My palm and fingers were already turning purple. My whole hand ached, but I hadn’t had time to really focus on it. I probably needed to ice it, but I’d have to clean the door first.

With my left hand, I pulled out the cider and cracked it open. As I sipped, I closed my eyes and relished the cold, crisp flavor. Egg sucked. That slimy shit never came off easily. And I had plenty of experience. Piper had broken plenty in her seven years.

As much as I wished I could collapse in bed and put it off until tomorrow, if I didn’t deal with it now, it would eat away the paint, and the last thing I needed was the super yelling at me. We got complaints enough because of Piper’s tantrums. Time for some Bounty and good, old-fashioned elbow grease.

I propped the door open and swiped the surface of the door with a dry paper towel first, hoping to remove any excess slime. It did very little, so I stepped back inside and wet a few towels.

Back out in the hall, I got to work, only to be startled by a deep voice behind me.

“If it isn’t Boston’s newest villain.”

Heart thumping, I turned around. Instantly, though, I relaxed. The owner of the voice was my neighbor Trevor. He was propped up against his doorjamb, arms crossed and smirking.

“Villain?” I asked, turning back to the door.

“Did you not go the game tonight in a very tight white button-down and catch the ball that should have been the third out?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, not you too.”

Piper had been awful when I’d caught the ball, and half the fans around us had muttered about it. But what was I supposed to do, trust that the frozen baseball player would snap back to reality in time to stop the ball from knocking my son’s teeth out? Kyle Bosco was an overpaid, over-sexed, whiny, pretty-boy attention whore. There was no way I’d allow my son’s fate to rest in that man’s hands.

Trevor came up behind me, crowding my space, and took the wet towel out of my hand. I let him have it and snagged the second one I’d brought out. While he worked on the top half of the door, I kneeled and scrubbed at the bottom half.

Without stopping, I glanced up at the good-looking man looming above me. Trevor was nice enough. A single dad with two preteen girls. I’d probably like him more if women weren’t always fawning over him because he took care of his girls every other weekend.

Maybe I was jaded, or just a bitch. But being a parent every other week for forty-eight hours didn’t seem worthy of all the praise he received. Yes, it was nice that he loved his girls. But he got a lot of time to himself too.

Me? I got none.

I shut my eyes and took a breath through my nose. I inhaled until my lungs burned, then let it out again. Trevor had been fighting for more parenting time. That was more than admirable. And my situation didn’t give me the right to hate on him.

He cleared his throat. “I guess you didn’t watch the postgame.”

“No, why?” I asked.

He paused his movements and tipped his head, frowning at me. “Streaks put a bull’s-eye on your back, babe.”

I peered up, making my bun wobble. Quickly, I dropped the paper towel and adjusted my hair. “What?”

“Kyle Bosco”—cringing, he turned his attention back to the door—“otherwise known as Streaks, told all of Boston that you were single-handedly responsible for the Revs’ loss.”

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