Page 88 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“That night you went to visit Saxon…weren’t you worried about word getting out? How it would affect your reputation?” I ask.
“Faye, the only thing I was thinking about that night was you. If you hadn’t noticed, you pretty much live rent-free in my mind.”
“You could lose your career, Kit. You could go to jail.” Fed up with the darkness, I turn on the lamp on the nightstand, watching as rays of light lengthen over his handsome features, sharpening the cut of his jaw and the angular slant of his cheekbones.
“I won’t.”
He sounds so confident. Kit was willing to sacrifice his career forme. Everything he’s worked so hard for could’ve disappeared within the service of a lawsuit. It doesn’t sound real.
When I settle back into his chest, I crane my head to look up at him. “I don’t understand.”
“After I finished ‘talking’ with him, I told him that if he told anyone what happened, I’d tell the whole world what he did. Of course, I’d only go through with it if I got your permission. So I was bluffing, but dude was scared shitless at that point,” he explains.
I frown. “Even if I wanted to take him to court, there’s no evidence.”
A half-cocked grin graces Kit’s lips. “You do know I’m rich enough to hire a private investigator, right?”
“You know I don’t watchLaw and Order. I don’t know what any of that means.”
“Deleted texts, call records, and voice memos can be restored. It takes a while, and it’s fucking expensive, but it’s possible. So if we really needed evidence of what transpired that night, it’s retrievable.”
I never thought about anything like that. One, because I don’t have the money. Two, because I know jackshit about laws. And three, because it’s preposterous. That’s the kind of shit billionaire Mafia heroes do in romance novels, not the teammate of your older brother.
After the assault occurred, I did reach out to Saxon. I tried to get a confession out of him. I was confused and hurt and didn’t understand why he’d do something like that to me when we were supposed to be best friends. The worst part was that he didn’t even deny anything. He told me it was consensual. He told me I asked for it. So there is evidence floating around somewhere in the catacombs of my phone.
I regret not screenshotting it at the time for evidence. I wanted it gone. I wanted the reminder to be gone. I couldn’t stare at those pixelated words any longer. I wanted to try to move on and forget. Moving on doesn’t work when you always have one foot planted in the past.
“And if I didn’t want the world to know?” I whisper uncertainly.
He shrugs. “Then I would’ve been rocking a sick jumpsuit.”
I gasp, punching him in the arm. “Kit, that’s not funny!”
“I’m not joking. I look great in orange.”
I want to laugh, and maybe I would if my emotions weren’t off-kilter. But all I can think about is what would happen if I lost Kit. Not being able to feel his arms wrap around me. Not being able to talk to him whenever I want to. Adjusting to life back in Pennsylvania’s gonna be a challenge as it is, but I can’t imagine adjusting to lifewithouthim. Period.
I can feel the tears coming to a boiling point inside me, and the wet patches on Kit’s shirt haven’t even dried yet from when I used him as a tissue ten minutes ago. “I don’t want to think about…”
He uses his forefinger and thumb to gently tip my chin up, our lips merely a breath apart. If I leaned forward a centimeter, I’d be kissing him.
“Princess, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that to get rid of me.”
33
THE GREAT PANTY PREDICAMENT
KIT
After Faye fell asleep, I took a container of Clorox wipes and snuck back down to the rink. Yes, it was around four in the morning. Yes, I probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Yes, I barely remember going down there at all. But no way in hell was I going to leave it to the janitors. What if they didn’t clean all of it up? What if my teammates said there was a weird smell coming from the penalty box? I would’ve died from embarrassment on the spot.
I’m off my game this practice, and it’s glaringly obvious. Bristol keeps shouting at me to pick up the pace; I can’t save or sink a shot if my life depended on it. I’ve been a complete mess. Inside my glove, my hand’s swollen to twice its size. Not just that, but I’m pretty sure I ran into the plexiglass a few times and apologized. The only thing keeping me somewhat alert is the cold-ass atmosphere.
I’ve been doing a passing drill for the past ten minutes with Fulton, but it’s felt closer to an hour. The puck ping-pongs back and forth between us, the blades of our sticks scuffing against the surface of the ice, athwackingsound echoing around the arena each time we land a hit. The next time the puck comes toward me, I accidentally overshoot, sending it flying over near the penalty box.
“I got it!” Fulton shouts, even though I’m only a few feet away from him.
I’m glad it’s the off-season, otherwise this would be the saddest performance of my life. Faye’s been a welcome distraction, but a distraction, nonetheless. I haven’t been practicing as much as everyone else. And the guys have been riding my ass about it.
