Page 161 of The Overtime Kiss

“You don’t answer my texts.”

“I wonder why.” I stab my finger against the email search bar, find it in fifteen seconds, and resend. “There. Check your email.”

He glares at me. Then, like it pains him to the soul, opens his email and clicks on the file. With an aggrieved sigh, he says, “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

My jaw ticks. “Nope. And now you have it,” I say, my eyes swinging pointedly to the curb.Time to go.

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he stares at Tyler’s house curiously. Studying it. It’s a nice home of course, by any standards. It’s a modern Scandinavian style, slate and beige, with big windows and a sleek design, and it’s located in one of the fanciest sections of the city. “So, looks like you leveled up.”

What did he just say? I tilt my head. “Excuse me?”

“Traded up,” he says, like I didn’t understand his meaning when it was crystal clear. He waves a hand toward the home. “I saw you kiss that man just now. You live with him. Is this why you fabricated that whole nonsensical story about a cat and a voicemail? Because you were really sleeping with someone else?”

Something in me snaps. Like a branch breaking off a tree in a windstorm. One loud crack and it’s crashed on the ground. I point to his car on the street. “Go away. Now. Just get off my property.”

He laughs. “Oh, Sabrina. You’re still making things up. It’s not yours. It belongs to the rich hockey player you’re”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“working for.” He shakes his head, like he’s tsking me. “I should have reached out to you to get VIP tickets for the game I’m taking clients to next weekend instead of buying them for face value. You really tried to play us all for fools. But when Chad gave me the address, I did some searching, saw who rented this home, and then learned Tyler Falcon also just so happened to be in Cozy Valley for acharitygolf tournament the same weekend as your wedding. Only ten minutes away from the venue. Cozy Valley, where you like to use the rink. Tyler, who you met more than a year ago when you skated for the Sea Dogs. You two looked awfully cozy in that photo you posted that night while you were engaged. It’s all incredibly convenient, isn’t it?”

I’m reeling, a boxer slammed in all my soft spots, stumbling, slumping against the ropes as he hits me every place it hurts.

“That’s not what happened,” I choke out.

“Sure. Of course it’s not. You got close with him quickly, didn’t you? Moving in with him. Doing face masks with his kids,” my father continues, leveling his lowest blow yet, and I didn’t think he could hit lower.

But when the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally slams you into the wall, your knees give out.I grab the post next to the railing, my breath coming fast and hard, my heart exploding.

My father never loved me.

I’ve never been good enough for him. “Go away,” I seethe, but it fast becomes a sob, wrenched up from the depths of my trying-too-hard-for-him soul.

I spin around, grab the door handle, and yank it open in a tear-streaked haze, then slam it shut as big, gasping breaths wrack me.

I feel like I can’t get any air.

Like I’ve been crushed as I cry and crumple to the ground.

He’s an awful, cruel man.

But as I drop my face into my hands, one thought keeps shoving its way to the front of my mind—what if he’s also a little bit…right?

I am sleeping with my boss, and that’s what hurts too. That shard of truth, jagged and sharp, cuts me.

43

PRESENTATION TIME

Tyler

On the ice that afternoon, I get up in Phoenix’s business, cutting off passes, stealing the puck.

I race behind the net, fighting it out in the corners with a kind of loose and easy pace that sends adrenaline rushing through me.

It’s a natural high.

This is why I play hockey—for games like this. When everything comes together, and you feel on top of the world. Every pass, every blocked shot feels a little like magic.

The magic that comes from years of practice, performance, experience.

And…joy. In the third period, the Phoenix center charges ahead on a breakaway, chasing down the net, but I cut him off, smacking the puck far, far from him and right toward my brother’s stick.

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