Page 3 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“Who, by the way, wasn’t a brunette. I swear her hair was red.”

“Orange,” she corrects, and I know this is just going in another direction about every shade of the rainbow.

She hyper-fixates on colors, all thanks to her color-blind ex, Wyatt Cyrus.

“I honestly can’t remember what the fuck happened last night.” I decide to get to the point as I put my arms in the air to wave them aimlessly. “I went to Jack’s, got fucking wasted because I spent all this time chatting with this dude I thought had good chemistry with me, then his ex came out of nowhere, trying to pull my hair out after calling me a skinny fake bitch.”

“We don’t allow skinny shaming up in this house,” Alexandra declares and is already rolling up the sleeves of her crew neck sweater. “Just give me permission, and I’ll get my bro to hack the system and get some footage. I can find her in no time.”

Sometimes, I wonder if my friend works with the damn FBI.

“That’s not what pissed me off,” I whine.

“What did?”

“That she called me skinny!” I complain and turn around. “I’ve been training with Leo for six months, Mack! Six months! Look at my ass! She’s round. She’s gained. She’s having a Kim Kardashian moment! Why is no one calling me curvy?! I don’t got a thigh gap. My thighs rub and chaff like a bitch! I’m upset!”

“Sometimes I wonder if I need to get you therapy,” Alexandra mutters.

“MACK!”

“Alright, MickeyCurveyThighsForDays. That’s why you got wasted,” she concludes, knowing I can go on about my desire to be all curves, even though my metabolism is a damn beast on pre-workout.

“Yes,” I huff before quietly adding, “And I accidentally texted Jayce.”

Her eyes narrow.

“And?”

“And he left me on read.”

“Alright. Give me ten minutes.”

“NO!” I grab her before she can stomp out of here. “Don’t get your brother to hack his phone to try to find his location.”

“Oh girl, we ain’t trying. I can find that man faster than an Amber Alert locating a missing kid. I’ll get his ass here and begging for forgiveness in no time.”

“Just admit you hate him more than Maddox.”

“I actually don’t hate Maddox,” she counters. “He was always the more sensible douche out of the two!”

“That doesn’t make him sound any better,” I whine.

“Well, I’ll track his ass, too, and we can leave them to brawl it out on who the bigger douche is.”

“Alexandra! Don’t!”

“Ten minutes! That’s all I need!”

“Well, I need both of you downstairs in ten minutes for din—” The deeper authoritative voice comes from the pink ladder decorated in fairy lights. “Mikayla Cross Johnson. What in heaven’s name happened to your hair?”

We freeze and confirm who’s staring at me like a deer in headlights.

A very upset deer in headlights.

“Hey, Dad?” I nervously laugh and look at Alexandra.

We share one look before peering back at my father.

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