Page 102 of Arrogant Puck

Her.

I down the rest of the whiskey and head for the shower. The hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the arena grime but not the image of her face when she realized what I’d done. The panic in her eyes when she understood that her career was collateral damage in my need to possess her.

Maybe she’s right about me. Maybe I am exactly what she thinks. I’m an entitled asshole who destroys everything he touches.

When I get out of the shower, I can hear water running down the hall. She’s in there, probably washing off the day’s disasters, andI have to physically restrain myself from walking down the hall and knocking on that door.

What would I even say? Sorry I threatened your boss? Sorry I can’t control myself around you? Sorry I’m exactly the kind of man your ex probably was—someone who puts his own wants above your needs?

I sit on the edge of my bed in just a towel, listening to the sounds of her moving around. The water shuts off. Footsteps pad across the hallway. Her bedroom door closes with a soft click.

I get dressed and pour another drink, then another. The whiskey makes everything feel muted, like I’m experiencing my life through thick glass.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s her.

Lexi: Hey. I haven’t heard from you in a while.

Lexi: Tonight?

I shake my head and then block her. There’s no need for her now.

By the time I hear Sage’s bedroom door open again, I’m halfway to drunk and no closer to figuring out how to fix this.

She moves quietly through the house, probably getting water or something to eat. I strain to hear if she’ll pause outside my door, if she’ll knock or call my name. But her footsteps continue past without hesitation.

I guess we’re back to being strangers sharing space.

I must fall asleep eventually because I wake up to sunlight streaming through my windows and a headache that feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull. My mouth tastes like bottom-shelf whiskey.

The house is silent again. Either she’s still asleep or she’s doing that thing where she moves like a ghost, avoiding any space I might occupy.

I check my phone. I have three missed calls from Coach, two texts from Henderson asking if I’m alive, and one email from mylawyer about some endorsement deal I couldn’t care less about. But nothing fromher.

In the kitchen, I find evidence of her presence. There’s a coffee mug in the sink and a plate with toast crumbs. She’s awake then, probably hiding in her room.

I make my own coffee and stand at the kitchen island thinking about what the hell my problem is. I thought maybe we were building something real.

Then I hear her bedroom door open. Footsteps in the hallway, light and careful. I turn toward the sound just as she appears in the kitchen doorway.

Jesus Christ.

She looks like heaven wrapped in basic clothes—dark jeans that hug her curves, a simple white t-shirt that somehow makes her look both innocent and devastating. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, still damp from her shower, and she smells like that vanilla body wash that’s been driving me insane for days.

I watch her move through my kitchen like she belongs here, reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter. For a moment, I let myself imagine this is our normal mornings where she walks around my house looking beautiful and comfortable, where she doesn’t flinch when I look at her.

But when our eyes meet across the kitchen island, there’s nothing but cold indifference in her gaze. She looks right through me like I’m not even here.

She grabs her keys from the counter and heads for the door without a single word.

The silence that follows is deafening. She couldn’t manage a good morning or go to hell or anything that would acknowledge my existence. In my own fucking house.

The rage hits fast and hot, coursing through my veins. I slam my coffee mug down hard enough that it cracks against the granite.

I need something to take the edge off before I do something stupid. Before I chase after her and demand she explain why she’s treating me like I’m invisible.

In my bedroom, I dig through my dresser drawer until I find the small bag of pills I keep for times like this. Oxycodone, saved for when the pain gets too intense to handle. Physical pain, emotional pain—it all responds to the same medicine.

I dry-swallow three pills and wait for the familiar warmth to spread through my system, dulling the sharp edges of everything.

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