Page 102 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Brutal hits and sharp passes. Fights to blow off steam.
Maybe that’s better instead of this guilt that’s been my constant companion, swiping out it’s talons to keep cutting me, over and over again, meaning that while I wasn’t a deficit to the team, I certainly wasn’t putting up points.
The guys noticed—of course they did.
But they thought it was the press, the attention, the shit the other team was giving me.
I didn’t bother to correct them, to tell them it’s because just when I was thinking I might be able to have something different, to truly make something different…
That phone call with Courtney smacked me back into reality.
And I froze.
And Faye had to deal with the fallout—I hadn’t even been able to end the call.
Like the guys at the shower had to deal with Courtney’s shit too—I didn’t shove her out the door, throw the lock, and call the police to deal with her shit.
Because I’m pathetic, fucking useless when it comes to dealing with my ex.
And so my nightmare is going to continue to bleed into Faye’s life, so much so, I might have to eventually let her go or risk my fucked-up world her turning into the one thing I can’t bear for her to become?—
“Christ, Roberts,” I hiss, shoving out of my car and slamming the door. “Enough.”
I stride forward, push into the house, pausing to hit the button to close the garage, but when I start to swing the mudroom door closed…
It stops.
Of fucking course, it does.
Because nightmares in my head…and in real life.
A feminine hand grips the edge, pushes it open, nearly slamming the wooden door into me.
And…
Then I’m face to face with Courtney.
Her perfume wafts forward to fill the air, so forceful it almost chokes me. She’s wearing a slinky dress that reveals far more than it conceals. My favorite outfit of hers…aside from her naked.
Or it used to be, anyway.
Because tonight I don’t feel that burning need, the urge to rip it off or push it up or lay back and let her fuck me with the slender straps slipping from her shoulders, the material bunched up between us.
Tonight, it’s just a dress.
She reaches a hand out, trails a finger down my chest.
And maybe I should have stopped her from touching me, should have shoved her back, but some sick part of me wants to test myself, to see if that need will reignite, to discover if I’m truly so fucking messed up in my head that I’ll fall back into the same old shit. But…
To my surprise and relief, the contact does nothing for me.
That finger sliding over my partially unbuttoned shirt may as well belong to a teammate.
A stranger.
No, a really fucking annoying opponent.
There’s no desire, no urge to divest her of her clothes.
