Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Instead, I find a text from the university.
Looks like the chancellor’s son thinks he can slip underground and avoid detection. That’s a negative, ghost rider.
That text is accompanied by a picture of Bridger with a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes. A couple of girls are snuggled up against him. I recognize the shot from the other day. There’s a second photograph. This one is from Slap Shotz after the game last Thursday. Again, he’s wearing a black ballcap that covers the upper portion of his face.
The caption reads—
You can run, but you can’t hide. We see you!
“Motherfucker,” he swears, tacking on a few other expletives.
“Any closer to discovering who’s behind these BS messages?” I ask, feeling bad for the guy.
It’s got to be some crazy chick he slept with. Who else would do something like this?
He yanks his gaze away from the screen long enough to glare. “No. But I’m going to figure it out or die trying.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be the latter,” I mutter.
He grunts in response before staring around the Union with narrowed eyes. A few seconds later, he shoves away from the table and rises to his feet.
“Hey!” he bellows, sharp tone slicing through the babble of voices that fill the large, sun-filled space.
People in the vicinity turn and look.
I scan the area, wondering who the hell he’s barking at. It doesn’t take long for my gaze to land on a girl with strawberry blonde hair dressed head-to-toe in black. One glance is more than enough to confirm that she’s not a groupie.
That thought is only reinforced when she glares at him in response before baring her teeth like a rabid dog.
My attention bounces between them with growing interest.
I have no idea who the girl in question is, but she’s scowling right back at him. If looks could kill, he’d be DOA.
I’ve known Bridger for more than three years, and I’ve never seen a female react to him quite like this.
Then again, I’ve never seen my teammate respond to a girl like this, either.
There seems to be a mutual dislike between them.
The situation unfolding before me is almost enough to make me forget my own issues.
Almost.
But not quite.
Chapter 9
Fallyn
I burrow into the collar of my jacket and pull my knit hat farther down until it covers the tips of my ears as I turn the corner onto West Elm, which leads downtown, where the bar is located. Slap Shotz is about a mile from my apartment. Even though it’s sunny, there’s a chilly breeze that cuts through the warmth pouring down from above. I would have asked Viola for a ride, but she has a three o’clock class.
And since I’m short on funds, setting up transportation when I could walk my ass there seemed foolish.
Would it be easier if I had a car?
Sure.
But I’d need a license, and I don’t have one of those. I was midway through driver’s education when the accident occurred and ended up dropping out a few weeks later. The following year, I finished the classroom instruction, but when it was time to get behind the wheel for the actual driving portion, I freaked out and had a panic attack.
And that was the end of that.
If I need to go somewhere, my parents or Viola are more than happy to drive me. When money wasn’t an issue, I’d set up a lift through an app. At twenty, I should probably woman up and get some behind-the-wheel experience, but the thought of actually doing it makes me sick to my stomach. My mind tumbles back to the night of the accident.
The moment of impact.
The screech of the tires against the pavement and the crunch of metal that still echoes in my ears during my nightmares.
What it felt like to be trapped against the seats.
And Miles…
The painful groans and blood.
An icy shiver slides through me before wrapping around my heart and squeezing until sucking air into my lungs becomes agonizing. I quickly shove those memories from my head and focus on my breathing.
One breath at a time.
In through my nose.
Hold for a beat.
Out through my mouth.
I concentrate on that until my chest loosens.
No amount of therapy has been able to help me move past that night. Or the aftermath that followed. The loss of my brother. How my parents went from being happy and chill to being overprotective and suffocating. I couldn’t move a muscle without Mom pouncing, wanting to make sure I was all right.
When my therapist asked to meet with both of us so she could help me open up better lines of communication and tell Mom in a safe space how I felt, along with the steps needed to become more independent, my mother yanked me out of therapy, saying that the woman was a quack and had no idea what she was talking about.