Page 165 of Twisted Play
By the final buzzer, Cole’s ribs were clearly hurting, each breath accompanied by a wince, and Tristan was favoring his shoulder. Nothing career-ending—just enough punishment to make the message clear.
We lost 3-0. Again.
I stood silently in the visitor’s locker room, my hands shoved in my pockets, unable to force myself to leave and climb into the staff bus that would take us home to Yorkfield.
Dr. Parker appeared in the doorway. “I need to document their injuries,” she said, her voice professionally neutral.
The look in her eyes said everything about what she thought was happening.
“They’re fine,” I said. “Just bruised.”
“That’s not your call to make. Eva wouldn’t tell me why she quit, but I’ve never heard her sound like that—like she was about to lose it.” Her eyes fell to the sweatshirt in my hands before flicking back up to me with fury as she clearly began to put the pieces together. She held out her hand. “I’ll make sure she gets it back.”
I handed it over, that sweet vanilla-citrus scent slipping away. The pictures on my phone burned against my thigh, reminding me there was no coming back from what I’d done.
“I’ve worked with you for six years,” she said quietly. “I trusted you with my students.” The emphasis ontrustedsliced like a blade between my ribs. “If you ever put them in that position again, it won’t be the NCAA you have to worry about.”
63
EVA
The first rentalcar company wouldn’t rent to me—too young. The second wouldn’t either. But the third, I slipped a twenty across the desk and flirted a little bit, letting my too fucking big breasts push up against the counter and peek through the unbuttoned top of my coat.
“Are you sure, babe?” the woman at the counter said, blowing a bubble and popping it like the worst fucking stereotype of customer service. “They’re calling for more snow.”
Yes, I was fucking sure. I’d walked all over this podunk fucking town in my sneakers. My feet were freezing. My back ached. I wished I’d packed more warm clothes—clothes I didn’t think I’d need, not for moving from hotel to practice rink to arena and back.
The receptionist looked at me more closely, thenclackity clackitywent her nails over the keyboard. “Hold up. I can price match you if I can find a cheaper price online.”
She kept talking about what she could throw in for me, then looked up. “You’re not gonna steal it, right?”
My short laugh brought pity to her eyes.
“Right,” she said, going back to her keyboard, clack clack clacking clacking. “And you’re sure you don’t want to take the bus?”
A wave of dizziness passed over me, and I pressed a hand to my heart. Fuck. “Doesn’t leave until tonight,” I rasped. “I need to get home.”
She looked up at me, bottle blonde, not much older than myself but somehow more fully formed, as if I were a chimera, a mere illusion of a person who’d fade away at the slightest resistance. “You okay, honey?”
I took a deep breath, embarrassed of how my emotions played across my face, unable to hide them. They’d finally broken me, those fuckers, and I didn’t intend to stick around to see how much more damage they could do.
“No,” I said shortly, shoving my credit card across the counter, praying the infinitesimally small payment I’d made last week had freed up enough of the balance. I must’ve looked a mess—rat’s nest of curly red hair, my eyes red with suppressed tears, my jaw set in a hard line. My poverty embarrassed me too—so broke I didn’t know if I could afford to rent a car to go home.
Her fingers clacked some more. “Okay, darlin’. It’s about as cheap as I can make it. You’ll return it in Yorkfield tomorrow?”
I looked over my shoulder at the flurries of snow dancing outside. “Yes,” I said shortly.
She gave me the total, and it was cheaper than I expected—less than a ride share would have cost me, that’s for damn sure.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Get home safe,” she told me.
Ten minutes later, I slid into the driver’s seat of the small sedan, dropping my overnight bag in the passenger seat.
I’d learned to drive as a teenager, but I hadn’t driven much since then. No matter. It was like riding a bike. I just had to get the fuck out of this town and back to Yorkfield before I fell apart. Six hours. I could do this.
I started the car, enjoying the luxury of heated seats as the car warmed up, then shrugged out of my coat, wishing I hadn’t abandoned my sweatshirt in the locker room during my little temper tantrum.
