Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
We’re on the far side of the arena, farthest from the locker room. Right in front of a closet . . . like the one we first met in.
Molly looks like she’s caught somewhere between here and somewhere else entirely.
Her face is pale, her usual confidence nowhere to be seen. She’s fidgeting, her fingers twisting together in a way that makes her look . . . small. Vulnerable.
Her gaze darts around.
There’s almost panic in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer to where she is. “You okay?”
I move carefully, like I’m approaching a skittish animal—slow and steady, trying not to make any sudden movements.
Molly’s breath hitches, and I realize I scared her. Something I seem to do a lot of, though not on purpose.
And every single time, it leaves this hollow, twisting feeling in my gut. Like I’m the reason she’s looking over her shoulder, and I hate it.
I hate that I’m a part of the fear she’s carrying.
I wonder what’s upset her, and then I notice she’s staring at the closet door. Is it the memory of the panic attacks? I have no business wondering, but I do.
I don’t know why I’m always curious when it comes to Molly Sinclair, but I am.
Fucking sue me.
Of course, I remember all the times I’ve seen her like this, but I figured it got better. Obviously, it hasn’t. In fact, it feels worse. Bigger.
I’ve spent so many years avoiding her, trying my damnedest not to pay attention, but maybe the panic attacks never went away.
Or did something trigger her today?
“I can’t,” she whispers to herself, her voice trembling.
“You can’t what?”
She tips her chin to the door. “Go in there.”
“I’m here.” I take another step forward. “I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
She pivots her upper body to look at me. Her head shakes. Tears begin to well in her eyes. I want to reach out and hold her.
But I don’t want to push.
Who knows if touching her will set her off or calm her?
I need to tread carefully.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Her voice is a mix of confusion and vulnerability. “After everything that’s happened?”
Neither of us brings up yesterday. When shit got too real.
It’s like some unspoken agreement.
Maybe we’ll never bring it up, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened. It happened, and we can’t undo it, and I will never look at Molly Sinclair the same.
And hopefully, she’s done looking at me the same way she has the past few years.
“Believe it or not,” I reply, my voice steady, “despite all the rumors, I’m actually a nice guy.”
She huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close enough. “Nice guys don’t torment their teammate’s sister until a bet makes them stop.”
I wince, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Touché. But for the record, you’ve tormented me right back, so let’s call it even.”
Molly doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes drift back to the closet door, and I can see the way she’s bracing herself—like just looking at it takes more strength than she wants to admit.
“What happened, Molly?” I ask softly. “Why can’t you go in there?”
Her fingers twitch where they hang at her sides like she’s fighting the urge to fidget.
She doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say immediately, my voice firm but gentle. “If it was stupid, you wouldn’t look like you’re about to bolt.”
She swallows, her throat working hard.
For a second, I think she’s going to shut down completely.
But then she speaks.
“When I was a kid . . .” She stops, shaking her head as if trying to get rid of the words before they’re out. “No. Never mind.”
I take another step closer. Carefully. Slowly.
“When you were a kid . . . what?”
Her gaze flickers to me, her walls starting to crack just a little. Then she shakes her head again, and the moment is over. “Never mind.”
My jaw tightens, the words hitting me harder than I expect. “You can tell me. I won’t judge. I won’t even say anything else if you don’t want me to.”
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and guarded again. “Don’t bother trying to pry. Others have tried and failed.”
“Fine. You don’t have to tell me,” I reply, holding her gaze. “I’m saying . . . I get it.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What do you mean, you get it? I haven’t even told you what it is.”
“I mean, I get why you can’t go in there. Why it feels like you’re drowning just looking at it. You’re not crazy, and you’re not weak for feeling like this.”
She stares at me for a beat, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. Then her voice drops to almost a whisper. “I hate it.”
“Hate what?”
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the door. “How one stupid door can still make me feel like I’m thirteen years old all over again. How I can’t . . . I can’t get over it. Not really.”