Page 66 of Wrong Pucking Player

“I… I can’t get a motel right now,” I point out because that’s the frightening part of all of this. “I know motels are cheap here. Like fifty a month or whatever, but the announcement of Strattonville Stadium and this new initiative is blowing up, and I’m sure everything is going to go up with the idea of tourists coming here. That can easily shoot that up to one hundred a day. That’s three thousand a month. That doesn’t include food if the motel doesn’t have a fridge. How will I get transportation that goes to the stadium for my internship? Wait. That probably isn’t as important as the fact I’ll be homeless. Fuck. My plants. I… don’t want them to die. You put so much work into them, and they’re about to bloom. Shit… what if people find out I’m homeless? God, if my aunt finds out, she’ll tell me to apply to all these free government grant shit so she can get money to raise her fourth baby or whatever child is next on the roster of welfare abuse.”

It takes large hands to cup the sides of my face for me to tug my attention from my flooded mind to the calm eyes staring down at me—black eyes with hints of hazelnut.

“Kenzie, calm it for a second.”

“Kenzie?” That’s a unique way of shortening my name, I guess. “That’s a first.”

“No one has called you Kenzie?”

“No, it’s either Mack, Mackenzie, Xandra, McDs, or fucking Alex or Alexandra, which I absolutely hate, so please don’t call me that unless you want me to sock you in the balls.”

“You’d kick someone in the balls,” he corrects. “Not sock.”

“You like to point out my flaws,” I grumble.

“I like to correct you just to see how fuming red you’ll get,” he counters but gets back to the point. “You’re not going to be homeless.”

“You just said they’re doing renovations of my place next week, which means I’m gonna have to vacate,” I summarize. My voice dips as I feel a lump form in my throat. “Oscar… I… I don’t have money. I mean, I have savings… but they’re in a secret account my aunt doesn’t have access to. If I tap into it, that’s literally my life’s funds of survival. If my aunt finds out this is happening, she’s going to speculate I got money from somewhere and do anything to find out where I got it. Plus, living in a motel is just not feasible long term. The money will run out… and I can’t rely on Mikayla or even Wyatt. He wouldn’t hesitate to help me, but for how long? It would strain whatever we currently have, and well…”

I can’t keep talking.

If I keep going for even a few more sentences, I’ll have a full-blown panic attack. I can feel it inch inward, creeping up on the perfect build of anticipation as I openly talk about how fucked I am right now.

Everything was on track.

Back in my small hometown, my apartment still in one piece, getting an actual internship when I thought it wasn’t possible, actually connecting with Wyatt and potentially rekindling whatever we previously had, and even speaking with Armani, Kane, and Diesel when I thought we’d never really have a conversation together. Even have a temporary pet kitten, even if it’s Armani’s cat.

Why is this happening?

Why is everything going to crumble down when it was just getting good?

“Kenzie… look at me.”

I do as I’m told, my eyes wide and blurring in mere seconds. Armani curses, and before I know it, he’s hugging me tightly.

“Let me speak for at least a minute before you have a full meltdown,” he whispers into my ear in haste.

I take a few deep breaths before nodding into his shoulder—or upper chest—and hugging him back for five long seconds.

Pulling back, I seek for him to have his chance as a single tear runs down my cheek. It doesn’t get the chance to glide down the whole way as Armani brushes it away with his rough thumb.

Calloused hands from weightlifting, probably.

“You noticed my place looked a bit newer, yes?”

Now that he mentioned it, his place does look a whole lot newer than mine. Probably because of how he decorated it to have a bit of a cozy look but also maintain a sophisticated space.

“Yes,” I finally answer.

“They already did my place. They did the even numbers first throughout the building, and now they’re doing the odd number units.”

“Where did you stay when they did yours?”

“Your place,” he admits.

“Oh.”

That makes sense since I wasn’t here.

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