Page 13 of Playing Rucking Hard

Janice looks between us, “Is there something I should know?”

“Rule two,” I say, wanting the focus off my fucking father. “I’ll date who you want for the publicity, but don’t expect me to play along like it’s some happy little fairy tale. I’m not a fucking love story for anyone’s amusement. If you want to tie me up in a happily ever after, I get to choose the woman.”

Warner’s smile falters for a moment, but he’s a professional. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure to keep it ‘real.’”

Yeah, right.

I stand up to leave, already feeling like I’ve been played, but I’ve left an undetonated bomb on the table. All I need is to lay on enough guilt so Warner will beg to help when I’m ready. “You’ll keep it real? Bullshit. I trusted you, and you ambushed me here today. How the fuck am I supposed to trust you with my personal life when I’m still waiting on next year’s contract?”

Warner’s voice follows me out the door, but I don’t turn around. “We’ll have it all under control, Dylan. Just keep doing your thing on the field and let me manage you off the field.”

I don’t answer.

The only thing I can think about is how everything I’ve ever wanted—everything—is turning into a show for everyone else to watch, andEmmais going to see the result. It won’t be me. It’ll be the version of me they’ve sold to the world.

But, I can’t shake the thought that the real me is the one Emma walked away from. I was real with her that night, and she walked.

At least I have a plan for a second chance.

Chapter 6

First Contact

Emma

When I pull out my bag from the open-shelved cage they call a locker, a pink origami swan falls out and drifts to the floor. I quickly pick it up and look around for the culprit. Is this a joke? And why a swan? And pink? I don’t wear pink. I’m more a sage green or black kind of girl—unless I’m wearing the blue, white, and gold Mavericks’ uniform.

Pink? At least it got my attention. I fondle the pretty paper between my fingers, feeling small ridges. I turn around, shielding it from prying eyes, and carefully unfold the swan to see tiny, handwritten words.

A note? Who would send me a note?

Tea or coffee? #13275

I have no idea what the number means. I do, however, have strong feelings on tea and coffee. Both are good, at different times.

It takes a search through YouTube, a trip to a stationery shop to buy suitable paper, a gel ink pen that glides over paper like skates on ice, and a dozen attempts before I can create an origami dragon that almost resembles a dragon.

If my secret note-writer is Dylan, then I want him to think dragon ?? heat ?? fire ?? hot night ?? too hot to handle ?? dangerous and forbidden. Then again, he’s a rugby league player. Can he think that deeply? Can he connect the dots? If not, he isn’t worth the risk or my time.

While I’d rather spend my day drafting my reply or finishing an assignment, one look at the crime scene that is our apartment, and I lose my shit. My sister is mute, not a saint. She is still a twelve-year-old child who hates to keep her room clean, clothes washed, or return dirty dishes to anywhere close to the sink.

I should be doing my assignment. I want to be replying to Dylan. But being the responsible adult in the apartment, I press play on the audio version of my textbook and attack one room at a time.

I grab armfuls of clothes from over Sage’s bedroom floor and our shared bathroom, and fill the washing machine. I don’t careabout separating colors from whites. I don’t even care if fluff from her sweaters is transferred to the rest of her clothes.

Once her clothes are being washed, I empty the refrigerator of all the food that could probably walk themselves to the trash.

The slamming of the door is the first indication that I’m not alone. Good. I’m ready for an argument.

Sage finds me in the European laundry, shoving her wet clothes into the dryer. She opens and slams a cupboard door. I don’t look around even as I feel her anger.

She slams the door again. Still, I ignore her, forcing the dryer door shut, press controls, and hope like hell that I haven’t overfilled the machine.

I storm past her. Just for a day, I want to feel and act like her sister instead of her carer. I want to be pissed at her because she is being a lazy brat instead of indulging her. Yes, she is still traumatized by losing our parents. I lost them, too.I’m grieving, too.

I’m hurting, too, and I’m sick to death—poor turn of phrase—of having to be the bigger person. I’m sick of having to suppress my feelings and my needs to be the mother, father,andbig sister to my little sister.

I love her but right now, I don’t like her.

---