Page 13 of Never Your Girl

The only place I can truly be myself.

Me

Life, family, relationships—they’ve never come easy. Remember when you asked if I wanted to walk away from it all? Today is definitely one of those days.

I start the car, grateful that at least one thing in my life makes sense, even if they’re just simple messages. As I pull away from the house, I try not to think about the dentist bill waiting in my future, or the project I’ll have to suffer through with Bridger.

One crisis at a time.

That’s all anyone can handle, right?

4

Bridger

The puck whizzes past my stick while my mind replays the last mass text and my father’s reaction. We haven’t spoken since that night.

The silence is blissful.

Out of all the possible suspects on this campus, one name keeps circling my thoughts like a shark in bloody water.

Holland Tate.

Her parting shot after class still burns.

Nothing about our sexual encounter was forgettable.

Not that I’d ever admit it, but I obsessed about that night for months. The way her body?—

“Sanderson!” Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “What the hell was that? My grandmother has better hands, and she’s been dead ten years.” He jerks his head toward the bench. “Akeman, show him how it’s done.”

Perfect.

Garret fucking Akeman.

At the beginning of the season, he’d been gunning for Ryder McAdams’s spot before getting it through his thick head that he didn’t have a shot. Now he’s turned his attention to mine.

He glides onto the ice, all cocky attitude and unearned confidence. “Don’t worry, Coach. I got this.”

I clench my stick so hard, my fingers cramp. One punch. That’s all it would take to wipe that smirk off his face.

In the end, the few seconds of pleasure it’ll give me won’t be worth it.

Especially if my father catches wind of it.

I drop onto the bench and guzzle down some water before silently stewing. It’s a relief when Coach ends practice and everyone files off the ice.

My mind tumbles back to the beginning of the season and how epic I thought it would be to play the sport I’ve always enjoyed, with guys who’ve become more like brothers to me.

Fast forward six months, and my life feels more like a living hell I can’t see my way out of.

I push into the locker room and throw my stick in the holder near the door. The place is already thick with the scent of sweat along with humidity from the showers.

With a huff, I settle on the bench to unlace my skates before shoving them in my locker. Next comes the jersey and chest pad. Just as I’m peeling off my elbow pads, Garret saunters over with a white towel slung around his hips and a shit-eating grin quirking his lips.

“Rough practice, huh?” he says, leaning against the locker beside mine. “Better watch it, or I’ll be taking your place on the second line.”

I stiffen. There’s no way in hell I’ll allow that to happen.

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