Page 52 of Troublemaker
I’m not the stupid one in this conversation.
She was right.
I threw my phone against the wall. It hit the backsplash and shattered in pieces into the sink.
Here I was, the violent man I’d always been afraid I’d become. I didn’t deserve her. Wasn’t worthy of her kisses, or otherwise.
Sinking to my knees, I shoved my hands through my hair. Short of driving over to Emory’s, resisting killing him, anddragging Lucy back here, I wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe she deserved a little space, until I could man the fuck up and explain to her what was wrong with me. And fucking fix it.
First, I needed to drag myself out of this hole I’d buried myself in.
23
LUCY
I’m not the stupid one in this conversation.
Isat and stared at my unanswered text as Leslie gracefully flitted around me, getting ready for the game. I sat on her bed, sullen and sulking, not interested in seeing a man who hadn’t shown one ounce of remorse. Even if it technically was my job to be there.
“But I don’t want to go to the game,” I whined as Leslie dragged me through the doors into the melee.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to the game. It was that I didn’t want to see Blake. He’d left me on read. And since I had no interest in being watched by the douchebag asshole creep who couldn’t even get his dick out of his own ass long enough to reply to atext, I was hiding out in Leslie’s old dorm room to avoid the cameras he’d planted.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “It’s the semi-finals. Besides, you wouldn’t have put this much effort into how you looked if you didn’t want to be seen.”
“Ialwaysput effort into how I look,” I pointed out. It was one of the few lessons my mother had taught me that I actually internalized.
“Seen by Coach,” she clarified.
She was right.
I was pissed off and disappointed, but I wanted answers from him. And what’s more, I wanted to see him. My body was getting used to the feeling of being held by him, and the absence of his chest against my back made me feel raw and like something was missing—something essential. I hated that I felt that way, but I did. I needed answers, I needed him to finally fucking kiss me. I neededhim. That was the embarrassing truth:
I, Lucy Braverman, the woman who needed no one, needed Blake Samson.
Fuck.
I swallowed back tears that had this obnoxious way of showing up all the time.
I managed to keep them at bay on the way out of their apartment and in the car ride over to the arena. But after we parked and headed inside, I froze.
“I really don’t want to do this,” I said.
“Maybe, but you still can. Be brave, Braverman,” Leslie said.
I glanced at her, distracted momentarily from my angst.
“How long have you wanted to use that?” I asked.
“Since I first learned your last name,” she confessed.
Out of the blue, I hugged her. “Be my bestie forever, okay?”
She hugged me right back. “Okay.”
I released her and she grabbed my hand, guiding me through the crowd of excited fans and into the stands. There was a more or less permanent spot for her—well, us—in the rows above the penalty box. We sat, Leslie blushing and excited in Mason’s number. I had recklessly decided to wear Emory’s number. I knew men who played (and coached) hockey. I knew how theyfelt when the woman they cared about wore another man’s name and number on her back. If Blake actually cared about me, if he felt territorial toward me at all, I was playing with fire.
But since I wanted to set some things on fire right now, namely him, I was fine with it.
