Page 101 of Arrogant Puck

“Perfect! How does two o’clock sound?”

“Great.” The word comes out flat, lifeless.

After I hang up, the reality hits me like a fresh wave of nausea. I just lost my job. I won’t qualify for that apartment or any other decent place. My credit isn’t good enough to rely on savings alone, and what little money I have won’t last long without steady income.

I fall back onto the bed and let the tears come again, quieter this time but somehow more devastating. When I finally lift my head, my eyes land on the dresser Slater assembled for me. White, tall, with four drawers instead of three.

“This is the nicest thing someone’s ever done for me,”I’d told him.

And I’d meant it. The gesture had felt like something real, something that mattered. Not because of the money but because it seemed like he cared.

But maybe that’s exactly what Tanya was talking about. Men like Slater throw money at problems, buy affection, use their resources to make people dependent on them. Maybe the dresser wasn’t kindness at all—maybe it was just another form of control.

I pull out my laptop and start job searching, trying to focus on practical next steps instead of the tight feeling in my chest. There are opportunities in the area—not many, but some. I apply to a pediatric rehabilitation center downtown and a youth sports program that focuses on injury prevention for young athletes. Neither position would pay as well as the university job, but they’re honest work in my field.

The sound of Slater’s car pulling into the driveway makes my stomach clench. I hear his heavy footsteps on the front porch, the jingle of keys, the click of the front door opening.

I stay in my room with the door locked, continuing my job search until my eyes burn from staring at the screen.

By the time I need to shower, the house has gone quiet again. I creep down the hallway like a thief in my own temporary home, ears straining for any sign of him. The coast seems clear—his bedroom door is closed, no light visible underneath.

In the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. Red-rimmed eyes, blotchy skin, hair falling out of its ponytail in defeated wisps. I look exactly like what I am—someone who keeps making the same mistakes over and over again.

The hot water feels good against my skin, washing away the day’s humiliation and the lingering scent of that equipmentroom. But it can’t wash away the memory of how right it felt to kiss him, how perfectly I fit against his body, how for just a moment I thought maybe I’d found something worth staying for.

When I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the house is still silent. Slater’s door remains closed, no sound coming from within. It’s like he’s avoiding me as much as I’m avoiding him.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe we both know that there’s nothing left to say.

Chapter 36

I stay at Henderson’s until evening, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels that burns less than the words Sage threw at me. By the time I drive home, my knuckles have stopped bleeding but the pain in my chest hasn’t subsided.

Her car is in my driveway.

I sit in my car for several minutes, staring at the small Honda that looks so out of place next to my house. Part of me is relieved she’s here—that she didn’t pack up and disappear while I was gone. But a larger part dreads walking through that front door and facing whatever comes next.

The house is quiet when I enter. No TV sounds from the living room, no movement in the kitchen. I stand in the entryway listening for any sign of her, but there’s nothing. Just the hum of the fridge.

I head straight to my room, closing the door behind me. I need a shower, need to wash off the day and the lingering scent of arena sweat and Henderson’s dorm room. But first, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey from the bottle I keep on my dresser.

The alcohol burns going down, but it’s nothing compared to the memory of her voice.

You can’t understand.

She’s right, of course. I can’t understand what it’s like to need a job to survive. Can’t comprehend the desperation of having nowhere else to go, no safety net to catch you when you fall. I’ve never had to choose between rent and groceries, never had to smile and take abuse from a boss because unemployment isn’t an option.

But she can’t understand either. Can’t know what it’s like to lose the only person who ever believed in you. Can’t imagine the weight of carrying someone else’s dreams along with your own. She thinks my money makes everything easy, but it’s never bought me the things I actually want.

My brother.

My parents.

Better hips.

Love.

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