My lungs squeeze out a harsh breath that provides no relief. Irsia’s right. Being cooped up in her apartment hasn’t been the best for my mental health. My cousins, both older and thus under the misapprehension they’re responsible for me, are determined to drag me out of the wreckage of my life. I’m not certain they can. I’m not certain the person they believe I am exists anymore.
A defeated sigh escapes me.
Defeat. Another dreadful D-word I hadn’t known—especially not with cricket, my first love. Sitting in the stadium at Wankhedewhile Baba, my father, hoisted me up on his shoulders, is a core memory. Wanting the power to bring a stadium full of people jumping to their feet, I spent my youth obsessively training, with the dream of playing for India. The year I turned twenty-one, I inched closer to that goal, moving from Mumbai’s domestic circuit to the national team.
Then, a car crash ended it all.
The car crashIcaused.
I chug my drink, attempting to stave off the stinging pressure building behind my eyes as guilt and disappointment grips me in a familiar chokehold. Brick by brick, mistake after mistake, I destroyed my life as much as my ex-husband, Namik, did.
Loneliness digs into my skin like an ever-present thorn when I notice the laughing faces around me, couples on dates, and friends catching up. I throw my jacket into the empty seat across from me so it seems occupied. So I don’t look as pathetic as I feel.
Here I am: twenty-six, jobless, friendless, and divorced from a man who made it his hobby to tear me apart.
Restlessness whirls through me as I amble to the railing, placing my glass on a ledge overlooking the lower level. I need to find my way in life again, but it feels so daunting. Like I’m looking at my future while wearing beer goggles, unsure of how to bring things into focus again. I’ve been directionless for so long; I don’t know where to begin.
“That’s them. Fuck, they’re so hot.”
Pulled from my gloom, I glance right, then left, noticing locks of blonde hair fluttering past the ivy-covered trellis separating me from the giggling girls nearby.
“Do you think I could get one of them to tend my goal tonight?” someone says, leading to a new round of titters.
“Last time I was with Novak,” a silky voice adds, “I swear, I came harder than I ever have. I think I lost my vision for a bit.”
My brows rise automatically as I stifle a snort. Either they don’t realize they’re loud or they don’t care. Having come from a conservative upbringing, I’m still unused to openly discussing sex and pleasure. I might not have thecojonesto participate, but I’m all for it.
Get yours, ladies!I raise my drink to toast them, wistfully wondering what it’d be like to be as confident as they are. To go for what I want without overthinking it.
“I’m waiting for Moore. Is he here yet?”
Moore?I straighten my spine. Surely, they aren’t talking about—
“One of these days, Rohan Moore will find his face buried between my thighs and I won’t be letting him go.”
Jaw loose, I involuntarily step back. It shouldn’t surprise me that there are women lusting after my cousin. He’s a handsome man and I’m certain his career in the NHL helps. His team, the Monterey Ironhearts, are famous. They last won the Stanley Cup nearly a decade ago but there’s buzz the team could soon bring it home again.
As close as we are, I haven’t been exposed to Rohan’s life as a celebrated sportsman—especially notthisside of his popularity. It’ll traumatize him if I ever reveal what I’ve overheard.
“Moore is a tree I’d like to climb. He’s got the whole moody, broody vibe working for him. You know what they say about a grump in the streets?”
I lean forward without thinking about it.
“Daddy in the sheets!”
I choke back a horrified laugh. I don’t need to know this about a family member. With any luck, the alcohol in my system will dull my memory. The one thing Icancorroborate is his being a grump. Big brothers often are.
“Cal Finnigan or Theo Novak—nowtheyknow how to have a good time. Look, there they are by the pool table. Ugh, the way Novak handles that stick makes mefeelthings.”
“He could handle me any time. He could break me and I’d say thank you.”
I giggle to myself.Who are these sex gods?My cousin’s teammates are as much a mystery to me as is his career. I’ve watched him play on TV briefly but sports,allsports, have been pushed to the back of my mind for years now. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate supposedly hot men from a safe distance.
So, with more stealth than I require, I inch closer to the railing, craning my neck to see the pool tables below. Twenty or so feet away are a group of men clearly built differently: sportsmen. I can tell by the innate swagger with which they carry themselves.
Like I used to.
Shaking my head to clear unwelcome memories, I blink a few times to refocus my vision. My eyes land on a tall man, his long fingers curling around a cue. He strokes the gleaming wood, circling his thumb at the tip absentmindedly. Something about that action makes my belly swirl with heat, catching me off guard. That must be Theo Novak, I decide, reminded of the woman nearby who was salivating over his stickhandling. I can see why.
