Page 16 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

EVA

“Dad?” I let myself into the dark house. The porch light was out, and when I flicked the switch, it didn’t turn on. Goddammit. One more problem I had to find time and money to fix.

Dad slept on the couch, a half empty bottle by his side, a newspaper clutched in his fist, the classifieds highlighted. The living room was spotless—I hadn’t had time to clean this weekend, and he’d done it for me for the first time in a long time.

My heart broke.

Carefully, I removed the paper from his grip, smoothing the wrinkles and folding it before placing it on the table.

I didn’t even know people still used the paper to find jobs.

I drew a blanket up over him and kissed his temple.

“I love you,” I whispered before lifting my bag over my shoulder and hauling it upstairs .

A few minutes later, I padded back downstairs to make myself a snack. The fridge was practically empty, except for one plate with two pieces of pizza, carefully wrapped in plastic. The note on it read, “Eva.”

Wait.

No.

I spun around and took in the boxes of pizza and cans of beer by the trash can. Where had my father found the money to order pizza? And buy a case of beer?

Shit shit shit shit shit.

I knelt to search under the sink, shoving cleaning supplies aside and pulling out the nondescript plastic bucket where I kept our emergency stash.

I’d thought it was safe there because he cleaned so rarely—it’d become yet another bone of contention between us as I struggled to balance school and work and everything else.

Empty. How could he?

Incandescent rage turned the edges of my vision black.

My scholarship didn’t cover room and board, just tuition.

The cash from tonight’s shift was supposed to go into the fund for repairing the hot water heater—but now, I’d have to use it for groceries.

I’d been scrimping and saving for months, a few dollars here and there, hoping I’d have enough before winter hit. And now, it was fucking gone.

He’d turned a quarter of a million-dollar debt into a million-dollar debt, and now, he’d spent my emergency stash too.

Goddammit. Why did it have to be so difficult? No matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I saved, I couldn’t get ahead.

I’d given up so much. And here I was, getting ready to face the winter without hot water because my father, who’d given up so much for me, couldn’t resist temptation .

My mind flashed back to before Mom cleaned out the bank accounts and left us, sixteen years ago, after my first operation. We’d been happy. And then, we weren’t. And then, she was gone. Dad went to her funeral a decade later—a car accident. I refused.

It was so fucking unfair. Assholes like Cole Carter had everything handed to them on a platter, and people like me had to hustle for every scrap.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

I crashed on top of my blankets, not even bothering to change, praying to a god I didn’t believe in that tomorrow would be better.

My alarm blared, and I groaned. My sleep had been plagued with nightmares, and all I wanted was to roll over and pretend I didn’t have to find a way to survive my senior year.

And feed myself.

Shit.

I dragged myself out of bed, grateful for the first breath of cool fall air that meant I wasn’t pouring sweat because we couldn’t afford to run the A/C overnight.

Fuck it.

Me

Want to grab breakfast this morning?

Rory

8?

Me

*thumbs up emoji*

I showered, shivering under the cool water, swearing softly. My fucking father. I owed him everything , but it didn’t hurt any less to watch him disappear into drink, as if that could change anything.

Twenty minutes later, I waited at the bus stop, grateful there was no morning practice today.

The driver greeted me with a smile and a wave, and I settled into a seat with my tote on my lap and my e-reader in my hand—a gift from Dad when he’d come into some money a few months ago.

Now, I knew he’d done it gambling, and reading left a sour taste in my mouth.

Rory waited for me outside the student café, sitting on rickety metal chairs and ignoring the odd looks she got for her paint-covered clothes.

“Early morning at the studio?” I asked her.

Her bright blue eyes cut to mine. “Slept there.”

I looked closer at the purple smudges under her eyes, her gaunt cheekbones, and drew her in for a hug. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said. We were best friends, but we—well, we both had the same trauma about depending on other people, about becoming a burden .

“If you need anything?—”

“I know,” she said with a smile. “But you didn’t ask me to breakfast to talk about me.”

“My treat.” I grinned, determined to share my fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude. Dad had already spent enough that I wouldn’t be able to fix the water heater. What was a little bit more for coffee and avocado toast if it brightened my life for a few moments ?

“High roller,” she said. “Good night at the club?”

I laughed as I pushed the doors open, getting in line to wait, envious of the well-heeled elite who filled the university and never had to consider whether buying a coffee and breakfast burrito might mean they couldn’t eat for the rest of the day.

“Dad spent the money I’d been saving for household repairs,” I confessed. “I’m so goddamned tired of scrimping and saving and never doing a goddamned thing for myself. I need a fucking treat. I deserve a fucking treat.”

Rory stepped up beside me to order, but when I pulled out my wallet to pay, she pulled out her own.

“Rory—”

“Shut up,” she said as she paid for our order. “I sold a painting last week.”

We moved over to the counter to wait for our orders, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

“So what’s really going on?” Rory asked me as we found a table outside.

I dove into my breakfast burrito, demolishing it. I was so fucking hungry.

Rory wouldn’t judge.

“Eva,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “You know you can pull extra food from the food bank if you need to.”

That’s how Rory and I met our freshman year—our scholarships covered our tuition, but not a penny more.

We’d both volunteered at the food bank out of a misplaced sense of guilt, like we were taking resources meant for someone else, along with two other women.

Now, I knew better, but I wouldn’t have traded those nights bonding with my now-best friends for anything.

My eyes shot to hers, finding only understanding. “I don’t have time to pull volunteer shifts,” I sighed. “It’ll be fine.”

“It won’t be fine,” she snapped. “I’m the student director of the food bank now, remember? Take food if you need it.”

“Ladies?” a smooth, masculine voice interrupted from behind me, like warm honey running down my spine.

I turned in my seat, surprised to see Tristan Baptiste standing there, one hand on the back of my chair, his smile wide with delight. I flushed—how much of our conversation had he heard?

“May I join you?” he continued, holding up his own sandwich and coffee.

Rory’s eyes flicked between him and me, and then she grinned. “I was just leaving, actually. And Eva?” She waited for my gaze to meet hers. “You deserve good things in your life.”

Tristan slid into her seat, and I had to tear my eyes away from his perfect fucking cheekbones, golden eyes, and dark brown skin to wave goodbye to Rory.

“Good morning,” I murmured, suddenly shy, still irrationally embarrassed at how quickly I’d inhaled my burrito, and that he might have heard Rory tell me to go to the food bank, as if fat women couldn’t also be poor, or as if I were fat because I devoured my food.

“How’re you doing?” he asked, the corners of his eyes soft with concern.

What did this gorgeous hockey god want? I sipped at my delicious coffee confection, letting the sugar rush through me, and peered at Tristan while I collected myself. Rory might get to see hot-mess Eva, but nobody else did. “Busy. School—work—the team—you know, it keeps me hopping.”

And the blackmail. Mustn’t forget the blackmail .

“Is your job with the team work-study?”

I laughed. “In theory. But you know how it is—D1 sports means a lot of unpaid hours in exchange for credits I don’t really need.”

“I pick up bartending shifts in the off season,” he offered. “It’s not a lot, but…” He trailed off then shrugged. “I can’t work during the season, and my hockey scholarship doesn’t cover everything. And I hate being a burden to my family.”

Disarmed by his honesty, my icy mien defrosted a hair as I did my best to ignore the eyes that followed our every movement. Discomfort wiggled down my spine at our fellow students dissecting me and wondering what one of the stars of the hockey team was doing with a woman like me.

Tristan demolished his first breakfast sandwich, then a second, keeping up the small talk. He eyed the third before sliding it back into the paper bag.

“For my second breakfast,” he explained. “We missed you at practice yesterday.”

I blinked.

“ I missed you,” he said, ducking his head as if embarrassed. “You hadn’t missed a single one before that.”

My eyes shot to his. He’d noticed?

“So I worried.”

A frisson of worry crept up my spine. First Cole, now Tristan. Why were they both interested in me all of a sudden? My life was complicated enough—the last thing I needed was heartbreak.

Tristan reached across the table to take my free hand in his, electricity sparking everywhere our skin touched.

I attempted to tug my hand away, only for him to tighten his grip, his fingers burning into my skin like brands.

“You okay?” he asked me .

“One hundred percent. I just need to go study for my bio-chem exam,” I said, trying to stand.

“Lucky me, I’m on the way to the library too,” he said, as if I’d told him where I intended to study, and us studying together there was a foregone conclusion. “Let’s go.”

He gathered up our trash and tossed it, releasing my hand only for as long as it took me to stand before snatching it back.

When I tried to tug it away again, he ignored me, instead twining his fingers in mine as we wound our way through the throngs of students heading to their morning classes.

The feral kitten inside me wanted to snuggle right up to this man, tall and strong and handsome and?—

Tristan looked down at me, eyeing my tote bag full of books before sliding it off my shoulder and onto his, ignoring my protest. Cole’d done the same thing, and the same butterflies took flight in my stomach.

“Hey!”

“Hay is for horses,” he teased me, and that feral kitten fucking purred deep in my chest, stretching and begging for more.

I didn’t date. I didn’t do relationships. I didn’t do anything that would distract me from my goal—graduate, go to med school, become a doctor, practice sports medicine.

“What are you doing?” I asked, smiling despite myself. I slammed the lid shut on my fears and decided to enjoy this handsome man’s company. I deserved a moment of pleasure, no matter how fleeting.

“Hopefully charming you,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d give me the time of day.”

“I almost didn’t,” I admitted, but Rory was right. My life was utter shit right now, and I wanted to feel good for a moment. Tristan’s determined attention healed a crack in my soul, even if I knew he was just fucking with me, and this could only end in tragedy. “Today seems to be your lucky day.”

“I’ll keep holding your books hostage then, just in case,” he said with a grin, pulling me against him and wrapping an arm around my shoulders like we’d been dating for years.

And I let him.

God help me, I let him.