Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
For the longest time all I can hear are my breaths.
Frantic and heavy and needy.
So freaking needy for him.
To go to him.
To hug him, to touch him. To kiss him.
But then Reed speaks. “Well that was a nice fucking speech, wasn’t it?”
Ledger growls; I swear I hear it.
“Color me impressed,” he goes on. “And completely on board with this fucking craziness you two have got going on. Except,” a muscle beats in his cheek, “you tell her yet?”
Ledger stiffens at that.
“You haven’t, have you?” Reed continues with a smirk. “The girl you’d burn down the world for. You haven’t told her the truth.”
My heart slams in my chest.
It slams even harder when I feel tension radiating out of Ledger’s body.
“Reed,” I call out, not being able to stop the tremor in my voice.
My brother turns to me then, his face hard and his eyes — so much like mine — appearing angry. “You’re an adult, aren’t you? You’ve thought this through. Well, congratu-fucking-lations for hitching your wagon to a guy who’s not only wrecked his career but apparently, is also a liar. And hasn’t said a word about it to you. But hey, send me the wedding invitation, won’t you? And save me a piece of cake because I’d love to watch this train wreck happen in real time.”
Chapter Thirty
“Okay, that should do it,” I say, finishing tending to the last of his cuts.
In our bathroom. Not at my brother’s and Callie’s.
Because we’re back at the cabin.
After the fight, my brother left us all out there and went for a drive. Callie tried to make us stay — and I wanted to, because Halo’s sick and she could use all the help — but given that Reed literally left the place because Ledger and I were there, it was best just to leave.
“Although I still think we should go to an ER because I don’t like the look of your nose. I’m worried it may be broken.”
Not the first time I’ve said this tonight but so far, he’s completely refused.
All because I threw up a little tonight. Well, a lot, but still.
It’s the norm though, isn’t it?
You’re pregnant, you throw up.
But nope, leave it to him to make a big deal out of something that happens to every pregnant woman.
When he chooses to remain silent, which basically means no again, I shake my head and pack up the first-aid kit, ready to put it away, when he grabs my arm and pulls me back.
And I have no choice but to look into his eyes.
I wasn’t until now.
I haven’t, ever since we left Callie and Reed’s house.
Not because I’m mad at him. Or I believe what my brother said about him lying. But I knew that if I looked at him, I’d break down and ask him. I’d beg him to tell me what the hell is going on with him.
And his brothers.
And why and how is it affecting his soccer.
So far in the past weeks I haven’t. Mostly because we both have been trying to avoid reality and living inside our own bubble. Plus I understand keeping things to yourself. Now more than ever, when he himself suspects that I’m hiding things from him and he has respected my wishes to not poke and prod.
But now that I’m finally looking at him, looking into his eyes, I’m finding it so much harder to resist.
So much harder to simply stand here and not do something.
Something like hug him and soothe him while at the same time, somehow fight against the whole world for him.
For his bloodshot and agonized eyes.
As if someone is tearing him apart on the inside and he’s bleeding.
And the fact that his face is more purple and swollen than not is making it even worse.
“Ledger,” I begin, “What my bro —”
“I’ve been suspended,” he says, his voice hoarse but firm.
“What?”
His chest moves with a breath. “From the team.”
My heart thuds. “Why?”
At this, his chest moves even more, his breath longer and noisier. I leave the stupid first-aid kit and grab his bare waist. Somehow knowing that he needs the support for what he’s going to say next. And the fact that he puts his hands on my waist in return, as if he’s thankful that I’m there, is only making me want to weep more.
But I can’t.
Not right now when he needs me to be strong.
“Because I punched someone.”
“What, who?”
He clenches his jaw for a second before replying, “Another player. From the opposite team. And I did it at the game, during the game.”
“O-on live television?”
Another clench but he nods. “Yeah.” Then, “And he… pressed charges.”
I step closer to him. “What?”
“I spent a night in jail.”
“Oh my God, I… I didn’t —”
“That’s not important though,” he cuts me off. “My team pulled a lot of strings to get me out in twenty-four hours, which got them a lot of bad publicity. The press kept saying that instead of punishing the player that went rogue on the field, they were trying to save his ass. So they suspended me for the foreseeable future.” Then, “And well, forced me to take anger management therapy. So until a therapist deems me fit to return, I can’t play. I can’t set foot on the premises. I can’t go to practice. I can’t do anything.”