And I still want to hit something, and then I want to pull her into my arms and hug her and tell her that her parents are dicks and she deserves better than what they gave her, better than a cheating ex-boyfriend, better than a team of friends who let herwalk away when she was the one who was wronged, better than a brother who doesn’t see that she’s strong enough to survive whatever shit men throw at her.
And I want to tell her she’s not alone.
For someone who’s incredibly popular around town, she doesn’t have a lot of friends other than her old lady group that she seems to see with any regularity.
It’s a defense mechanism I recognize well.
And not one I employed until I got here.
Fuck, I miss my team. They still text on occasion, but it’s not the same.
I’m not there.
I’m here. Starting over in my mid-thirties with a body that often feels much, much older.
She hands the dice to me. “My grandma made sure to split her trust out so that Mom didn’t use it all when the divorce happened and there was something left for Silas and me, but I don’t—I don’t touch mine unless I’m in an actual emergency situation and have no choice. It’s more of an albatross than a safety net.”
I close both of my hands around hers as I take the dice.
She lifts her eyes, and I see myself in the defiance. TheI dare you to tell me I’m wrong for not wanting free money.
“You’re fucking awesome,” I say instead.
“I know.”
Her smirk breaks the tension, and I huff out a laugh while I roll the dice.
And land on her freaking railroad.
“Oooh, rent!” she exclaims, rubbing her hands together. “This is my favorite part.”
“How the fuck did you rig this? What did you do to the dice?”
“Not your turn to ask questions, bub. It’smyturn. Or else I’ll have to send you to jail for failing to pay rent.”
She’s cackling.
Legit cackling.
And it’s glorious.
I could sit here and listen to her cackle at my bad luck in this stupid game for hours.
She has a bloodthirsty streak.
My bloodthirsty streak salutes hers.
My bloodthirsty streak appreciates hers.
“Go on then,” I say. “Ask me something.”
“Hmm… Do I go for super-personal, or do I go for the big professional elephant in the room?”
I haven’t known her nearly long enough to instantly recognize that she’s debating between asking me about my divorces and asking me for my version of why I left England mid-season, but I have zero doubt that’s what her brain is waffling between.
The divorces don’t embarrass me—I was exceptionally young and naïve for the first one, and young and stupid for the second—and it’s not what I want to talk to her about anyway.
“My coach fired me,” I tell the board.
