Page 83 of Pucked Up and Married (Las Vegas Angels 4)

If life—and men—didn’t suck big hairy donkey balls.

In the end, I only took a mental picture and filed it away in my mind.

“Are you awake?” I asked in a quiet voice. All I was greeted with was a gentle snore.

Out of curiosity, I walked to his backpack and searched around for the bottle of pills I knew was in here.

I took note of how many were in there, then zipped his backpack up again.

Why I bothered to look, I didn’t know.

It wasn’t any of my business.

Soon, we’d be divorced and Trey and his issues would be someone else’s problem.

I sat on the bed and tapped his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

His arm barely twitched. I lowered my head and kissed his shoulder blade. I inhaled his manly, piney scent. Gosh, he smelled so good.

“Hey, wake up.” I poked him again, slightly harder this time.

Still nothing.

Beau had told me—and I’d observed the fact Trey hadn’t been going to morning practices anymore.

I also knew that the puppy had been spending more and more time at Beau and Gigi’s place. I’d wondered if it had anything to do with his pill use.

This time, I rocked his body, pushing him while I said, “Wake up.”

“Go away,” he muttered incoherently and moved further to the other side of the bed.

Yeah.

If I had to guess, he was definitely in the sleep until noon phase.

I left him to it and went back to the kitchen to start my day.

I made food, and I made excuses—for Dad and for me. The coaches gave me one more night but then insisted on me coming back.

I couldn’t blame them.

Each game from now on meant—everything. If we didn’t win this next series, then our team wouldn’t progress to the finals.

After I dealt with my stuff, I answered Dad’s phone and informed whoever called that he was sick and therefore wouldn’t be around to do x, y, and z.

Around one o’clock, Trey finally emerged from the basement. I was on my second workout of the day when he found me in the gym.

“Breakfast and lunch are in the fridge,” I informed him. I upped the speed of the treadmill. My legs were feeling that deep burn, and I was ready to adjust the incline and add to the intensity.

“Not hungry,” Trey said and swaggered over to me. He stood beside the treadmill and leaned against the handrail. “At least not for food.” His eyes lowered to my chest, then my behind—both of which I knew looked particularly good in this yoga outfit. The top and bottoms were a light, ballet pink, and I loved them.

I also felt like the pants gave my behind a nice lift.

“You should eat something,” I said, then let my eyes go back to my E-reader that I’d set on the display in front of me.

“I told you,” he said, reaching his finger to hit a button on the consol. The treadmill started to slow. Trey hit it several more times until it came to a complete stop.

“I’m in the middle of a workout,” I stated the obvious. I grabbed the small towel I’d set on the handrail and wiped my forehead.

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