The Wall (Derek):Also—seriously—“easy to take off”? Becker, you’re a porn poet. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Me:You’re all idiots. Tell Coach that—Actually, no. Don’t tell him anything.
Doc (Harrison):Too late. He just stood up. Said: “Enjoy it while it lasts, Becker. Because—(unintelligible insults).” Now he’s yelling at Nate on the phone.
Turbo (Tayler):?????? It’s been nice knowing you, bro. At least you’ll die happy.
53
I Am a Fucking Goddess
Sloane
I walk through the lightly falling snow like the devil himself is on my heels—except the devil, in this case, is my own fury.
My hand is clamped around Cohen’s with enough force to cut off his circulation, but I don’t care. I drag him out of the Great Hall, away from the applause, away from the cameras, andespeciallyaway from him.
That sleazy smile.
That old humiliation boils up my throat—acidic, choking.
But as my heels sink into the snow and I feel Cohen’s warm hand locked with mine, something shifts.
It morphs.
It becomes something else.
It becomes need.
I need to scrub Joe out of my head.
Not because I feel anything for him—God forbid.
But because I need to overwrite his betrayal with something stronger, more real, more violent. A full-force hurricane.
I need Cohen.
“Sloane, slow down!” he protests, nearly slipping as he tries to keep up while I storm down the path to our chalet. “What the hell is going on? The gala dinner starts in thirty minutes, we have to—”
“I don’t give a damn about the dinner,” I snap without looking back.
“But the mayor said—”
“To hell with the mayor.”
We reach Door Number 9. My hand trembles as I shove the key into the lock, push the door open, and yank Cohen inside with me. I slam it shut with a sharp kick.
The room is dark, lit only by the flickering orange glow of the fireplace.
Cohen looks at me—confused, worried. He’s still breathing hard from the challenge, hair a mess, that T-shirt stretched indecently across his broad chest.
“Sloane, hey…” He steps toward me, lifting a hand to touch my face. “You’re shaking. Is it because of that guy? Damn it, I’ll break his face.”
A vein throbs in his neck.
And I know—I know—Cohen Becker is half a second away from doing something impulsive and spectacularly stupid. Something that could tank his career for my sake.
The thought squeezes my heart, but I can’t let it happen.
