Page 65 of Slap Shot Daddies

Our thoughts are collectively focused on Kenzie, each of us wishing we could be there to care for her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kenzie

My hands wraparound the steering wheel and tears well up distorting my view of the road as I drive home.

My chest feels as if it's constricted by an invisible band, each breath catching in my throat, suspended somewhere between panic and the bitter sting of shame.

I barfed on Braden.

All over him at the rink.

Oh fuck!

A wave of heat floods my cheeks, the sharp pain of humiliation twisting my stomach into tighter knots.

My throat still burns with the remnants of acid, the sour taste lingering stubbornly no matter how many times I swallow.

My mouth is parched, but even the mere thought of drinking anything sends a shudder through me, threatening to bring the bile back up.

Mortifying images storm my mind: Braden stepping back, his expression a mixture of shock and disgust as he wipes his shirt.

I’m sure that Reggie and Ambrose laughed when they found out. I can almost hear them deciding in unison that I'm not worth the hassle.

I envision them shaking their heads, whispering in hushed tones: “She's gross, not nearly as fun and sexy as we thought”.

The ache in my heart cuts deeper than any pain in my stomach. I know that they would never feel that way about me, but it’s hard not to imagine the worst.

It’s one of the things I do best.

Sniffling hard, I swipe at the dampness on my cheeks, turning into my apartment complex with shaky hands.

My palms are slick with sweat against the steering wheel, and the unpleasant scent of vomit clings stubbornly to my clothes, a persistent reminder of the recent disaster.

It feels as though I'll never be clean again, inside or out.

The bile threatens to rise once more, but I force it down with sheer willpower.

I just need to get home.

I just need to get home, and take a scalding shower, and somehow erase the memory of how I humiliated myself. I’m worried I disgusted the three men who mean more to me than I’m willing to admit.

Pulling into the driveway, my hands tremble as I fumble through my bag to find my phone. My thumb quivers over the screen as I unlock it, and my heart skips a beat at the myriad of messages that flood in.

Reggie>> You all right, lass?

Braden>> Don’t worry about me. Just want to know you’re okay.

Ambrose>> Please let us know if you need anything. Anything.

They’re not angry. They’re concerned.

A wave of relief crashes over me with such intensity that I almost burst into tears again. My fingers hover uncertainly above the keyboard, unsure of what to type.

Should I say thank you?

Apologize for messing up their day?

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