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I was doing the right thing to protect her.
Another lie. I don’t know where the lies end and the truth begins. At one point, I started using drugs and alcohol to escape, and then I was escaping to use. I couldn’t stop.
Ican’tstop.
Another lie. I can. I refuse to. I have no reason to.
What about the girl who loves you but doesn’t love your addiction? Do you care about her? If not, let me know.
Like fuck I’ll allow him to have her.
I sit on my bed and drop my head into my hands. Where do I go from here?
First, because Ethan Blackwood is a dick, I have practice at seven.
Second, I avoid the places where I get drunk and high. Not difficult, as long as my father doesn’t force me to see him. I can always tell him Coach has me on a short leash.That’snot a lie.
Next, I need to sell this penthouse. I can’t stay here, or I will eventually jump from the balcony.
I remove my boots and climb into bed. I’m exhausted but unable to sleep. I take out my phone and search IG for any new pictures of Aurora.
She’s currently in New York City. Her public profile has a picture of her behind the scenes with the caption: Getting ready for fashion week *kiss emoji*. She’s wearing a black lace bra, a pink feathery miniskirt, and high heels. Her legs are a mile long. Fuck, I miss having them wrapped around my waist.
Her ribs are showing, and the skirt is low enough to see the indentation of her ab muscles and prominent hip bones. She’s stunning, as always, but she has lost weight.
The best part of the picture is her bright smile. She appears happy. She deserves it.
It’d never work out between us, even if I was sober and my father wasn’t a snake. We both travel, and I’d be insanely jealous of every guy who saw her this way.
I could work on that, though.
Well, I can get sober. I’m still trying to figure out the jealousy.
I leave her a comment.I miss that smile. *heart emoji*
She never writes back. I don’t blame her, but I’d give anything to talk to her.
“I thoughtI was here for practice, not a fucking therapy session.”
“Shoot the fucking puck, then.”
I take another shot at the empty net, nailing the top-right corner.
“Left side,” Ethan calls out then resumes asking his stupid fucking questions. “When did you start playing?”
“Fourteen.” I hit the left side.
“Ding the bar, I wanna hear it. You play as if you started at four. How’d you make pro in five years?”
I take the shot, dinging the bar, and the sound echoes through the empty arena. “Surfing. I’ve surfed since I was little.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“Surfing teaches you balance. Skating is about balance. Low and wide. Strong core. It’s all the same. Most of the fights I get into, the other player falls first. They lose their balance, and I’m on top.”
“Holy fuck. That’s impressive.” He gestures toward the goal. “Five hole.”
This shot is supposed to be between the goalie’s legs. Easy enough without a goalie. “When did you retire?” I ask.