Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
And the last thing April needed was someone prying into her personal life—or her past.
It was all my fault.
Spewing curses, I drove back to the hotel, figuring I’d just go up to my room and hole up before the game and cool my temper. But there was a fucking photographer waiting for me in the lobby, and as soon as I started for the elevators, he was following me, snapping away. Every instinct in my body was to take the guy’s camera and smash it on the marble floor, but I managed to hold back, and lucky for him the elevator doors opened quickly. When he attempted to follow me and one other female guest in, I shoved him back. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
The doors closed, and I turned to the woman, who had a hand over her chest and a terrified look on her face. “Sorry,” I muttered.
She didn’t say anything, but she got out on the first floor she could.
Back in my room, I fell forward onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow. Since I’d hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, the sheets hadn’t been changed and the pillowcase smelled faintly of April’s perfume. I breathed it in and tried to relax. My body grew heavy. My head grew foggy.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back watching television. The remote was in my hand, so it had to have been me who’d turned it on, but I had no memory of it. Even stranger, I was watching that damn documentary, but instead of the usual talking heads, it was April and her sisters discussing me. At least, I assumed they were her sisters. They all looked almost exactly like her and every single one of them had her red hair, even Frannie—whose hair, I knew, was not that color at all.
But I recognized the names that flashed on the screen as they spoke.
SYLVIA: He was never good enough for her. Not then, and especially not now.
MEG: I mean, even if she forgave him for abandoning her when she was pregnant with his child, I can’t.
CHLOE: I can’t get over the way he fooled everyone into believing he was something he isn’t. You just can’t trust a guy like that.
FRANNIE: I really thought he would change, you know? I thought he really cared about her.
SYLVIA: A guy like that only cares about himself. He’d make a terrible husband and father.
MEG: Oh, totally. I can’t even believe they’re letting him coach those kids. Especially now that we know about his secret dark side.
CHLOE: Which doesn’t surprise me at all.
FRANNIE: I’m so sad for April. I wish he’d never come back.
Then my own sister Sadie appeared, but even she had April’s red hair. And she was wearing my Central High School jersey.
SADIE: Growing up, I thought the sun rose and set on Tyler. He was my hero. Now I don’t know who he is.
I woke up with a sudden jerk of my head, soaked in sweat. When I looked around, I discovered I was still lying exactly as I had been when I’d flopped onto the bed—on my stomach, face down, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. The room was light, but the television was off.
It was just a dream, I realized, rolling onto my back and throwing an arm over my forehead. Jesus. I needed to get a grip. What the hell was wrong with me today?
I lay there for a few more minutes, then decided I needed food. I picked up the phone and ordered room service, and while I waited for it, I scrolled through some real estate listings on my phone.
But I wasn’t in the right mood, so I ended up tossing my phone aside and watching a stupid car chase movie. Might have been a mistake because I felt even more amped up and pissed off than I did before I watched it. I did manage to take another nap—dream-free this time—before I had to go over to the field, but even that didn’t take the edge off.
I just couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what I did, I couldn’t win.
Speaking of not winning, the game that afternoon did not go well.
Chip’s motion was off, and no matter what I said, he couldn’t seem to get his stride length right. We took him out of the game, and I knew exactly how he felt when he sank onto the bench, head down.
We sent in a relief pitcher—Brock—but he didn’t fare any better. The other team was playing a great offensive game, and it didn’t help that Brock’s dad was screaming at the umpire through the fence the entire time, arguing with the calls. Finally, I went over to him and tapped his shoulder.
He turned to me and puffed out his chest. Admittedly, I did the same.