Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
And all I got was shit for my trouble. Let them learn the hard way how fucking valuable I am.
“Why should she lift a finger to help all of you?” Dallas says. “It’s not like you won’t go back to treating her like shit the moment you have the win off of her.”
“Fuck ’em.” Army folds his arms across his chest. “Let them lose.”
A car horn honks outside, and I don’t know if it’s her mom, or maybe it’s Clay, sending her in here to do her dirty work.
I meet Krisjen’s eyes. “Tell Clay she can go fuck herself.”
“Clay’s not even playing,” she tells me.
I stop and look up at her.
“She’s benched,” Krisjen goes on.
I drop my gaze, staring at my bowl, absently stirring as thoughts whirl in my head. Clay’s not playing. Will she even be there? What the hell happened?
I’ll admit, the prospect of not having to deal with her bullshit on the field is enticing. But if I play today, they’ll just try to coerce me into playing again, and eventually she will be back.
I’m done with Marymount.
Krisjen stands there waiting for me to say something, but when I don’t, she sighs and walks for the door, giving up.
“I’m sorry about it, you know?” She pauses with her hand on the knob. “There’s no excuse for our behavior.”
I drop my eyes to my bowl again, steeling my jaw.
“But there is a reason,” she says. “There is always a reason why people are the way they are. Even Clay.”
My throat tightens, and I listen as she opens the door, walks out, and closes it behind her.
“That took nerve.” I hear Army say.
“Or stupidity,” Dallas adds.
Maybe both. Or maybe it’s just humility. Krisjen is a follower, but I always knew she wouldn’t be the way she is without Clay and Amy and their pressure. She might be a nice person otherwise.
Iron speaks up. “I’m not playing nice if those little pricks cross the tracks again, Macon. Without Liv at Marymount anymore, there’s no reason for us to keep the peace.”
“You’ll do and not do what I tell you to,” Macon fires back.
“Like Liv.” Trace laughs. “You get her to do what you want so well.”
“What…” Macon says. “I’m glad she refused her. I always hated that she was on that team anyway. It was a waste of time.”
Aracely laughs from her stool against the wall, I hear the engine outside rev, and I drop the spoon back into the bowl, clenching my fists.
Only one thing I want to piss off more than Clay Collins, and that’s the people who love me, relishing for me to fail. In four years, Macon has been to one of my games. One. At least I have no expectations of Clay. All he cares about is my future. Never my happiness. He never listens.
Pushing off the couch, I slip on my leather jacket, grab my keys and shoes, and slip my purse over my body.
“Liv!” Macon yells.
But I don’t look back. Racing out the front door, I see Krisjen’s mom’s Range Rover pulling down the dirt road, and I run after it, pounding on the rear window.
They stop, and I hear the door unlock.
I swing open the back door and climb in.
“I’ve got a spare toothbrush,” Krisjen says from the driver’s seat as she looks at me in her rearview mirror, smiling.
I sit down next to Ruby, Amy in the front passenger seat, and slam the door. “I’m not staying the night.”
Just for the game.
• • •
The stadium in Gibbon’s Cross is like walking into a lobster tank surrounded by butchers looking for the perfect specimen for tonight’s special. It’s small—smaller than ours—so no matter if it’s a football game or peewee soccer, the stands always seem filled with homefield advantage. Not a single empty spot on the bleachers remains, the benches overflowing with cheering parents and students, not because anyone here particularly gives a shit about girls’ lacrosse, but they do like to win against St. Carmen. Private schools brim with people used to getting what they want for a certain price, so when anything is left to chance, it’s stressful. And exciting. They show up for it.
We jog to the sidelines, everyone on the field stretching and warming up.
“You’re late!” Coach yells at Krisjen, panicked. “I’d bench you right now if I didn’t need you.”
We stop in front of Coomer, and I see Clay, in uniform, on the bench off to the left as Coomer’s eyes flash to me.
“She’s still a student,” Krisjen tells her. “I can’t keep up with this team. Please.”
Coach studies me, probably wondering about the change in heart after I’d stalked into her office Monday morning, told her I was out, and promptly left without a conversation. I hop on the balls of my feet, stretching my arms over my head, because we have no time for warm-ups before play starts.