Page 3 of Bite Your Tongue

My hands shake, and though my cheeks are flaming hot, my body suddenly feels cold. The way that he dumped me, I knew he was trash then. But this? This is a whole other level of garbage. The kind that doesn’t even deserve to be taken to the dump.

It deserves to be destroyed.

“And you watched it?” I grit my teeth. “You and others on the team watched him fuck who you thought was some random girl?”

“No!” he says quickly. “He was holding his phone up, bragging. Once a few of us walked in and saw it, we looked away. We didn’t have to know it was you to know it was wrong.”

My eyes fly to his as Smith comes into my head. He’s worked so hard to make it into the pros. I hate that his experience with this team could be put in jeopardy, all because I chose to spread my legs for the devil.

“My brother? Does he—does he know?” I bite down on my lip to stop the cry from erupting out of my throat. “Will my parents see it?”

“Smith has no idea. Most of the team doesn’t, and the few close to him who do, they know not to say a word, or I’ll turn the team against them.”

My panic must be clear as day.

“Saylor, breathe,” he whispers firmly. “I snuck into the locker room during practice the next day, and I deleted the videos.”

My eyes bug out. “Videos? Like … multiple?”

“Trust me, you weren’t the only one he’d pulled that shit on.” He cringes. “And after I deleted the videos—permanently—I ruined his phone and then threw it in the garbage.” He sighs. “He still thinks he left it somewhere.”

The room feels like it’s spinning. I silently try to tell myself it’s not a big deal. And who really cares if someone saw the video of us having sex? Because at the end of the day, it’s only sex. But still, no matter how many times I chant it inside my brain, I can’t calm down. I feel … dirty. I also feel judged, betrayed, and fooled.

“The one good thing is, I got word this morning that he breached his contract and they’re terminating him from the team.” He surprises me when he reaches across the table, placing his hand over the top of mine. “He’ll be out of here in the next few days, Saylor.”

I stare at him. I’m not really looking at him, but more through him. I’m not shy about my body, but right now, I’m embarrassed as I realize that Tripp and God knows who else watched me with that monster.

“Thank you for, uh … letting me know. I’m going to take off now.” I swallow before sliding out of the booth. “Lots to do.”

And I’ll likely never show my face around you again.

Before my feet can carry me out of the café, his deep voice stops me. “Let me drive you home. You’re upset.”

“No thanks.” I shake my head because even being near him right now, knowing I’m on the verge of a breakdown, is sending me into a tizzy. “Thanks again for telling me.”

“Saylor, please don’t let this break you. This guy? He’s scum. And I promise you, his career will never be what it could have been now that he’s fucked up his contract with the Sharks.” He says assuring words, but they don’t help me—at all. Sighing, he offers a small, sympathetic smile. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. Okay?”

All of his words are muffled in my ears.

Eventually, I give him a faint nod. “Thank you,” I utter, knowing I need to get out of here before I have a mental breakdown in front of this man and make an even bigger fool out of myself than I already have.

I should have asked more questions. I should have found out who had seen the sex video. Maybe if I knew how many it was, I might feel better. Or maybe that would have just made it all worse.

Either way, my walk turns into a jog. And my jog turns into a run. And my run turns into a sprint. Because I have to get the hell out of here.

I’m going to get drunk and forget the conversation I just had.

Ifollow Tripp into the small bar we sometimes like to stop at, and right away, I’m met with the smell of cigarettes, liquor, and greasy mozzarella sticks. It’s the type of place the bottoms of your shoes stick to as you walk across the floor, but it’s quaint and usually quiet, especially on a weeknight, when it’s just a few regulars.

Tripp is broody anyway, but tonight, he’s been overly pissy, and since arriving here, he seems to have grown more and more sketched out.

As we each take a seat on a barstool, Tripp pulls his ball cap down a little lower, which is dumb because everyone in this hole-in-the-wall bar knows who the fucker is. How would they not recognize Portland’s own star goalie for the Sharks? But he likes to think he’s incognito, so I’ll leave him be.

“What’ll it be tonight, fellas?” Jayce, the bartender, asks while he pours a tall glass of beer for someone else.

“I’ll take a Bud Light,” Tripp drones, looking at me and raising a perceptive eyebrow.

“I’ll take a Sunny Beach,” I say proudly, aware that Tripp’s about to bust my balls because I always order the fruitiest shit on the menu.

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