Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Thanks,” I respond, a slight smile playing at the corners of my mouth as I treasure the thrill of the game sparking back to life within me. It burns bright against the barren emptiness.
“So, where you staying?” Foster asks as he rises from the bench and slings his duffel over his shoulder.
“Renting a place over in the Historic Mexican War Streets neighborhood. The front office had a list of places for me.”
“Nice area,” Foster says.
“Convenient,” I reply. “It was already furnished.”
“Does that mean you won’t be moving your stuff from Vermont?” Boone asks.
My stomach pitches as that’s getting dangerously close to a subject I don’t want to talk about.
“Not anytime soon,” I say vaguely as I pull my shirt over my head and then sit on the bench to put on my socks.
“Is your wife staying behind because of a job?” Foster asks genially.
The weight of the question hits harder than I expected. I swallow hard, deciding honesty is the best route. “No, she won’t be joining me. We’re… taking some time apart.”
That’s a delicate way of saying I left Simone and have no intention of reconciling with her, but I’m not about to splash my dirty laundry around.
Boone and Foster stare back at me with awkward expressions, but it’s Foster who recovers first. “Ah… shit, man. I’m sorry. I wasn’t being nosy or anything.”
“It’s cool,” I say, waving a hand at him, but if he’s as sensitive to my tone as I am, then he knows it’s anything but.
Foster’s voice drops. “I’ve been through it if you need to talk.”
“Divorced?” I ask because that’s the end goal for me, right?
“Yeah,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “We have a daughter and they both live in California. You have kids?”
All I can do is shake my head, the threat of an emotional explosion nearly buckling my knees. I mean… thank fuck we don’t have kids. Thank fuck Simone never got pregnant. Thank fuck that’s one disaster averted.
“Not that it makes it any easier,” Foster continues as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. “But still… let’s get a beer sometime and commiserate.”
I manage a smile, but the last thing I want to do is talk about Simone with anyone. Foster claps me on the shoulder as he moves past.
My regard cuts to Boone and I hate the sympathy on his face. I brace for him to say something about my wife, but instead, he says, “I’ve been hearing some of the shit in the press about your dad.” My hackles rise, prepared to tell him to shut the fuck up. “Ignore that shit. Not one person on this team cares about that stuff and neither should you. It will be old news by tomorrow.”
I blink in surprise, half expecting the same curiosity about my serial killer father that the reporters have. “Thanks, man.”
“We got your back,” he says simply, turning to his cubby.
And I have no choice but to believe it.
CHAPTER 2
Simone
Studying the two open suitcases on my bed, I mentally calculate if I need to bring dressy clothes. On the one hand, there could be some functions that require more than jeans, cargo pants or leggings. On the other hand, even if there are team events, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be invited to them.
Deciding I can buy a fancy dress there if I need it, I do nothing more than toss in a pair of strappy black sandals with an incredibly high pegged heel. Those go with anything.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket causing an electrical surge of hope to zip through me, only to fizzle when I see it’s my brother, Malik, texting.
Not that I don’t love to hear from him, it’s just that I don’t particularly want to hear what he has to say today.
When are you leaving?
I glance at the suitcases, do some mental math and text back. About half an hour.
You’re making a mistake running after him, he replies.
I move over to one of the cozy chairs set by the bedroom window and sink into it. This indeed could be a mistake. I tap my finger along the edge of my phone a few times before responding. You’d run after Anna.
I can envision Malik rolling his eyes and I already know the gist of his answer before it chimes its arrival. Yeah, but she’s not an asshole. Van is. Don’t do it.
Sighing, I type out my reply. Leave it alone. He has his reasons.
None of which are good enough.
Malik might be right about that, but I’m willing to give my husband the benefit of the doubt.
Tossing my phone on the other chair, I lean my head back and rub at my temples. I’ve had a perpetual headache for the last two weeks, brought on by screaming matches, bouts of painful silence, tears wept in private so he’d never see how hurt I was and the never-ending barrage of texts and calls from my brothers threatening to kill Van.