Page 26 of Drop Three

Although I’m confident on the outside, I’m secure enough to admit that having someone be intentional and notice my inward beauty sounds too good to be true.

A pretty face is meaningless with a sour heart.

I’m not that, but for some strange reason, looking presentable has always made me feel like I need less attention from my parents. It’s almost as if it doesn’t bother me when they forget to ask how I’m doing or what I’ve been up to because I feel good about myself, and that’s all that matters.

At least, that’s how I justify it in my head.

My ex-boyfriend Luke didn’t contribute anything positive to that deflection.

After being together for as long as we were, you’d think his love for me would have been easily seen from the outside looking in.

Except, I couldn’t even feel it from the inside.

Luke never mistreated me; he failed to encourage or compliment me. I’m not some woman out chasing compliments, but typically, when you’re in a relationship with someone, especially throughout nearly every stage of life, complimenting is a form of love.

Attraction.

Desire.

The undeniable want to see your partner happy andfeelloved.

It seems shallow to keep those thoughts to yourself. The ramifications lead to a lukewarm relationship.

We became content with resembling friends who lived together—at least, that’s what it felt like until Luke’s need to wife me up saved me. His controlling tendencies set off my alarms and lowered the blinders that sheltered me from his behavior.That’s when I ended things with him, and the next day, I came home to all of my things thrown outside the apartment.

Fun times, I tell you.

Thankfully, Luke is in the past now—tragic after spending nearly half our lives together, but necessary.

I’m working on caring less about others’ opinions and more about my own views. It takes time, and old habits die hard, but I’m sure I’ll get there.

The thing that will not be dying hard, though, is my love for lip colors.

Securing my extra bright pink shade, I walk across the room and settle in front of my portable mirror light to tackle my tired and naked face.

I’ve got thirty minutes to prepare for my first postseason interview with Coach Leggins today. Most people assume reporting ends when the season does, but that’s not true.

The same goes for the players.

Yes, they get time off, but they’re also contracted year-round to continue press conferences and interviews on what’s to come in the upcoming year and any postseason training they’re doing.

My interview today with the head coach of the Atlanta Strikers, Jack Leggins, is to get some insight into his drafting process, signing, and trading. What does he see the Strikers looking like next year? Are there any free agents he has an eye on to extend an offer?

The new spring training season starts in March, giving all the Major League coaches time to secure their potential drafts and lineups.

Technically, my interview isn’t for another hour, but given I need twenty minutes to drive there now, I need to get my ass moving.

Except, that’s difficult in this three-hundred-square-foot hotel room.

I’m selfishly missing the five-minute commute from Tenley’s condo real bad.

I’ve been living in this dilapidated hotel room for a month now, and it isn’t getting any more enjoyable. I’m almost positive the front desk lady is selling cats behind the counter. No joke, meowing is the first thing I hear as soon as I get home from work, and I’ve witnessed countless people exit casually with a cat in their hands.

She’s a hustler if my suspicions are correct.

I’m on to her, and I plan to find out.

Not only that, but I haven’t had a hot or even warm shower since I’ve been staying here. I legitimately had to go to my storage unit to grab bed sheets because housekeeping has yet to clean and change mine. That’s if there even is housekeeping.

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