Page 101 of Lucky Shot

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Of course she doesn’t. “I think you like to be angry,” I say.

Her sigh and crossing her arms over her chest are her only responses.

“It’s easier for you that way,” I explain. “It lets you take what you want, and rather than deal with what comes with it—emotions, sensations, desires—it’s easier to hide behind the anger than admit you want me again.”

“How did the subject turn from Joey to me?”

“Because one thing we can’t fix and the other one we can,” I say and swerve around a person on a bicycle that veers out in the road. Her silence weighs down the car. “For what it’s worth, I found the photo you’re upset over. I get why you’d be after seeing it, but I didn’t go out after you left the other night. I’m an arsehole, I’ll admit it, but not to that extent. The only woman I wanted again that night was you.”

And since then too, but that’s an admission I’ll save for another time. One that’s not marred with the gravity of Joey and his family and therefore sounds insensitive.

But make no mistake, the want is still there and stronger than ever.

She scoffs. “Like I believe that.”

“Believe what you will but that picture was from Xfest three months ago. You can see the sign in the background. It’s the white hashmarks. Look up any pictures from this year’s festival, and you’ll see them.” I shrug. “Not sure why that site posted it now. To drum up views or likes or whatever, but I guarantee you I didn’t go out after playing a full game, a practice, and then being with you. The night after a game is my recovery period: ice baths, cold showers, stretching, and tape review. It wasn’t driving down to Miami the other night after you left, partying till closing, then driving home.”

She opens her mouth and then closes it, our eyes holding longer than is probably safe while I’m driving.

“Sadly, when you’re in my life as you’ve become, you can’t believe everything you read, and if you do, you have to take what you learn with a grain of salt. It’s horrible. It’s frustrating. It sucks. But that’s a big lesson everyone in my inner circle has to learn.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Whitney

When you’re in my life . . .

Those five words repeat in my head as Hardy drives aimlessly through the city streets.

I hate how they make me feel.

I love how they make me feel.

But . . . they make me feel and that’s way more than anyone else has done in a really long time.

I struggle with embracing the idea and truly accepting it, and yet I know I’m going to. It’s just as simple as that.

It’s like I cracked the door to that thought, and with each passing day, it keeps getting pushed open inch by pesky inch—or rather, Hardy keeps a steady pressure at pushing it open.

And with his explanation tonight about the photo I’ve been stewing about for two days, he just inched it open a bit more when I was ready to slam it in his face.

“Now, let’s get you home. You said you weren’t feeling that great,” he says.

“It’s nothing.” The lie is effortless despite the pang in my gut and the general feeling of malaise.

“I doubt it. You’re not someone who mentions being sick for sympathy.” He reaches over and pats my leg again, but he leaves his hand there when he’s done. “Now tell me where you live so I can drop you off.”

“Um, we can just go back and get my car,” I say as panic hits me. The last thing I want him to know is where I live.

Especially after seeing where he does.

“It’s no big deal. I’ll take you home and then grab you on the way back in the morning. Besides, the neighborhood isn’t exactly safe. The fact that you wanted to take Joey home by yourself doesn’t sit right with me so what makes you think I’m going to leave you all alone there now?”

“Thank you for your concern but—”

“But nothing. You’re worried about Joey’s safety so why can’t I be worried about yours?”