Page 57 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns

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The verbal equivalent of a calamity.

At first glance, the first few messages don’t seem that bad, nor the last ones.

I mean . . . are they?

Lucian: Liv, are you there?

Lucian: Liv?

Lucian: You can’t leave me like this, hard and needy.

Lucian: You’ll pay for teasing me like this.

My stomach drops.

I teased Lucian.

I played his game and—apparently—left him with blue balls.

Oh my God.

I throw my phone across the room like it burned me.

I am so fucked.

What the hell did I do?

I slam my hands over my face and groan into my palms.

Why? WHY?

I was tipsy. I was flushed with wine and self-satisfaction because for once, I had him—him—on the ropes.

I won.

But did I really? I don’t know him well, but Lucian Crawford will never let me live this down.

He’ll remember every single word I typed. He’ll bring it up strategically when I least expect it. He’ll smirk in that insufferable way of his.

And worst of all?

He’ll know.

He’ll know I enjoyed every second of it.

I groan again and flop back onto my pillow, arms spread like a crime scene victim.

Go, Livy, I think bitterly. You finally won a match against Lucian Crawford. Only to wake up and realize you were playing against yourself the whole time.

I stare at the ceiling.

I could just . . . not reply, change my name and probably move to another country.

Pretend it never happened.

Delete the conversation—fake amnesia. Burn my house down and relocate to a new city.

The possibilities are endless.

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