Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
We’re heading there next for a stretch of away games, first in Vegas, then Denver.
He shoots me a look from the passenger seat. “And that’d be a problem for some reason? What’s wrong with Cirque du Soleil? That shit is cool. Also, what’s your deal?”
“What do you mean?” I ask him as we near the players’ lot.
“You want to do this, right? This whole reputation rehab.”
“I wouldn’t call it want,” I say dryly.
He makes a rolling gesture with his hands as I pull up to the gate. “Right, right. You don’t want to. You have to. Whatever. Point is you’re doing it. Why don’t you just lean into it and get it done?”
Is it not obvious? “Because I hate social media? Because I hate false things? Because it all sucks?” I point out as I steer the car into the lot.
“But you’re doing it because of the potential benefits for your career, your future, your family,” he says, and I snag a spot and cut the engine.
We get out. “Right. I am. What are you getting at?”
“So just do it instead of giving her a hard time about it all,” he suggests, like it’s no big deal to smile and wave and shake hands, because to him it’s easy. He’s a natural at this stuff. Asher has the Midas touch.
“Not everyone is you, dickhead. We’re not all naturally nice,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Not the point, dickhead. The point is you know you need to do this. You seemed resolute the other morning. Why not just tackle it like it’s warm-up drills and get it done? Instead, you’re setting up circus dates to toy with Everly. Like it’s a game. An escape room or something, but you’re not really solving the clues. You’re dicking around and being difficult.”
“I wouldn’t call it a date.”
“Walks like a date, talks like a date…”
“But it’s not a date,” I add.
“Keep telling yourself that. All I’m saying is you’re making this harder than it has to be.”
But he wasn’t there when Everly was sassing me at the sushi restaurant on Friday night, tossing out options for my favorite things. The woman has made a game of our one-upmanship. We bicker professionally. There’s probably a leaderboard somewhere of our barbs and arrows. “I couldn’t just give in. You don’t get it. She expects me to be—”
“An asshole?”
I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”
“Ah. I get it,” he says, nodding in understanding. “Everything makes perfect sense now. You’re prolonging spending time with her.”
My smile drops like a fly in the summer swelter. “What the fuck?”
“You kind of are. You’re going to the circus with her…” He pauses for effect, then cups his mouth. “For a social media post.”
Dammit. I feel a little triggered. “Because I have to,” I point out defensively.
“And you’re finding every way possible to huff and puff and drag your feet.”
“Look, you might like everything, but not all of us are wired to wake up on the right side of the bed with the coffee cup already half-filled. Just because I know I have to do something doesn’t mean I have to like it. I change cat litter but I don’t love it,” I say as we near the door to the players’ entrance.
“I would think going to the circus with Everly is better than changing cat litter,” he says dryly.
I arch a skeptical brow his way. “Have you ever met a clown?”
“Wait. Do you have that same issue as Dallas Bright?” he asks, mentioning the forward on the Toronto Terror. “Dude is legit afraid of clowns.”
“Reasonable. John Wayne Gacy was known as the clown killer. I get where Bright is coming from.”
“You afraid of clowns too? Tell the truth,” Asher says.
I scoff. “No. I just don’t want to watch jugglers. Or contortionists. Or clowns. Or people pretending to be happy.”
Asher nods, long and understanding. “Right. I get it now. It’s happiness you hate. This makes so much sense. I bet you hate picnics and sunrises too.”
I shudder at the thought of dawn. “I’m not a morning person.”
“Called it,” he says.
We go inside where he spends the rest of the way to the locker room listing things he suspects I hate—stargazing, parks, movie nights with popcorn. Actually, that last one sounds surprisingly good.
“Wait. Was that a flicker of a smile?”
“Fuck you. No.”
“Dude, I like popcorn too,” Asher stage-whispers.
But as I move through my pre-game ritual—a light jog on the treadmill as I listen to one of my hard-rock playlists—my mind wanders back to his observation—the ridiculous idea that I’m trying to prolong spending time with Everly. Please. This makeover is already torture. No way would I try to drag it out. And no way will I pretend I like it. She knows the truth. She’d expect nothing less from me than who I’ve been.