Page 81 of Resist

In it, Coulton sat with Victor, Blake, and a woman. Not just any woman.

Evelyn.

Ainsley wasn’t proud to admit she’d done a fairly deep dive on Evelyn a week or so ago. It had been a slow night at the tavern, and she’d fallen down the Instagram rabbit hole, scrolling through Coulton’s pictures, soaking in every detail. As such, she’d seen pics of his parents and cousins, loads of him and Slade and his teammates, and even farther down in the timeline, pictures of him and Evelyn. He hadn’t deleted them because, according to him, they were still on good terms.

Once she had Evelyn’s last name, she’d gone into full online stalker mode, checking out all the other woman’s socials, curious about the kind of woman who could capture and hold Coulton’s heart for five years. During her undercover Facebook search, she’d learned that Evelyn was dating a doctor.

Studying the photo again, she realized it was a recent picture, because she recognized the Stingrays sweatshirt she’d watched him pack two days earlier. And because of his beard…

He’d trimmed it more closely than he normally liked on Tuesday morning, because ofher. Ainsley had distracted him, perching on the edge of the sink to watch him shave. He bitched when he’d cut the beard too low down on one of his cheeks. Had been forced to even the sides, after which he’d tickled her, claiming it was her fault he’d messed up because she was so damn sexy he couldn’t concentrate.

His beard was wrong in this picture.

That was when another thing hit her.

His away game had been in Vancouver.

Ainsley had been so stupidly drunk on orgasms Tuesday morning, she hadn’t put two and two together.

Coulton had seen Evelyn while he was away. She shouldn’t be surprised by that. He’d told her he was friends with his ex-girlfriend, a concept that felt incredibly strange to her. If she never saw Monty, Jagger, or Tiger again, it would be too soon.

Then she read the post, curious about his answer to the Thanksgiving question. Coulton said he was thankful for his parents, Slade, his teammates, and friends—old and new.

There wasn’t a single mention of her.

And she hated just how much that hurt.

CHAPTERELEVEN

“Ains?”

Ainsley glanced toward the doorway, bleary-eyed, where her brother hovered. Since reading Coulton’s “thankful for” post, she’d been staring at the wall, full-on zombie style for God only knew how long.

She’d passed exhaustion about thirty miles back and was now meandering aimlessly in utter numbness. Mario and Luigi could probably walk in here right now, shoot her in the chest with Mick’s stolen gun, and she wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Ains?”

Eli had stepped inside and was now closer to her, his bloodshot eyes crinkled with lines that suggested worry. She must look horrible if her brother, who’d clearly spent the last week sleeping on the streets, was concerned about her.

“Hey,” she said woodenly. She really—REALLY—didn’t have it in her to go toe to toe with Eli today.

“We get robbed?”

She snorted mirthlessly because duh. “Yep.”

“Where’s Mick?”

“Hospital. Dying.” On another day, in another lifetime, maybe she would have tried to break that news with more compassion, but she was out of emotions. All of them.

“Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck,” she repeated.

This was probably the most heart-to-heart conversation she’d ever had with her brother.

“Who broke in?”

Ainsley started to glance toward her room but stopped herself. She had no intention of ever stepping foot in that bedroom again. Right now, she was considering asking Eli if she could hunker down next to him in whatever alley he’d been squatting, because she was done with this place.

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