Page 97 of Imperfect Player

I’m sober now. Slightly hungover, but not physically looking any worse for the wear, thanks in part to the thirty-minute shower and the thirty-two ounces of coffee I drank before coming here.

Late.

I was late for practice.

Something that earned me a knowing glare from Maddox when I walked in and the current reaming that I’m getting from the coach now.

He stands in front of me, looking me straight in the eyes.

“Swear to me, Ethan. Swear to me that’s all this is. That I don’t need to worry. That you don’t need my help.” His hand rests on my shoulder, and there’s an emotion in his eyes that I don’t expect to see. Not for me. “Swear to me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay, Coach. I just overslept. That’s it.”

He closes his eyes, opens them, and nods.

He’s not buying it. He’s making himself accept it, but he’s not buying it.

“I’ll let it go for now but know this. Any more fuckups? You’re going to land yourself on the restricted list. And I’m not going to be able to help you with that.”

“No more fuckups, Coach, I promise.”

I make the promise with every intention of keeping it but knowing there’s a better chance that I won’t.

The drinking isn’t even the real reason that I’m late. It’s the memories. The texts from her that came both before and after I drove her away.

I just hope to God that it wasn’t for good.

I need to get out of here. I need to get to her, make it up to her.

“All right, get out of here. Good practice today. I expect nothing less than this every day.”

“You got it.”

I bolt from the chair and out of the stadium, making my way directly to her place.

Just my luck, Chelle opens the door.

As if getting talked to by my coach and having Everly hate me wasn’t bad enough, I can only imagine what the best friend has to say. Her very vocal best friend.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she says, hands on her hips, a no-nonsense look on her face.

Gigantic bouquet in my hands, I say, “I’m here, and I’m ready to grovel.”

“You’re going to need to do more than that,” she tells me. A fact that I’m already more than well aware of.

I can see Everly on the couch, knees hugged to her chest.

Fuck.

Standing silent in her doorway, I allow Chelle to just glare at me and take the delay she gives me as time to think about what I’m going to say. How I’m going to make it better. If I can make it better.

Because I may have flown over here right after practice, but fuck if I know what I’m going to do or say to her to fix this. Or if I even can fix this.

I sure as fuck don’t deserve her forgiveness—not that I remember a whole hell of a lot from last night, including what I said to her. The most I’ve been getting are little flashes, words, hurtful words. All culminating in me telling her to leave. Followed by her telling me she’s leaving because I told her to, not because she wants to.

Chelle ducks back into the apartment, gathers her purse, and presses a kiss to the top of Everly’s head.

“Make it right,” she says, poking me in the chest, “or I will make you pay.”

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