Page 18 of Heart of Thorns

I wrinkle my nose and follow him back to his room, and a thought occurs to me.

“You know who’s painting the mural?” I ask him. “You know a lot of people and what goes on around here.”

Jeremy graduated from SVU five or six years ago. He got a post-grad degree and returned here, and he seems content. But he’s the sort of guy who’s friendly with everyone. He’s atalker.

I need one of those right now.

He eyes me. “I saw what she did to your portrait.”

I groan. “Who is she?”

He whistles under his breath and gestures to the tub in the corner of the room. Already prepped for me.

Knowing he won’t talk until I’m in it, I strip out of my practice gear and down to my black briefs. I put my good leg in first, wincing.

Even having done this a million times, it doesn’t quite get easier.

Of course, he doesn’t know that I’ll go home and do the same thing tonight, with bags of ice bought from the local gas station, in hopes of stretching out the pain-free moments a little farther.

Again—I have nothing to truly complain about.

I’mfine. And I will be fine.

It’s an annoyance.

A slight grievance.

It’s no worse than entertaining Cynthia fucking Keenland and her father for a night. We’ll have a drink, he’ll tell me how he hopes his daughter and I get married and have eight kids, and we’ll inherit our parents’ money or companies—or both—and the generational wealth will just continue on and on.

It makes me sick.

A football career is going to one day be a tagline on my résumé. A selling point for dedication and perseverance and leadership.

The trophy wife will be the second, silent tagline. Unspoken but so, so seen.

“Fuck.” That would be the second leg going in, my hands gripping the edges and slowly lowering myself down. The water goes over my knees, then my upper thighs.

My balls have their normal reaction of sucking up practically into my asshole—not fun—and I swear again. And again when the icy water rushes over my navel.

Then I’m dropping the rest of the way in, and it hits me mid-chest.

I clench the sides of the tub and glare at Jeremy.

It’s no easier when I do it on my own. I have no one to blame but myself. This is necessary.Thatis punishment.

“Name,” I demand, refusing to be distracted.

“Tell me how you fucked up without even knowing her name.” He drags a stool over, a stopwatch in hand, and shows me that he hasn’t even started it yet.

It takes effort to talk without stammering. “Insulted her a few times.”

“Afewtimes?—?”

“Jeremy.”

He starts the timer. “So? How did you insult her? Merely for my own curiosity.”

Asshole.

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