Page 65 of Pitcher Perfect
While she’d been in the club, the moon had grown clearer behind the surrounding trees, a slight chill flavoring the air. None of the seductive music could be heard from within the Gilded Garden. Only silence. Only the heavy thunking of her own heart. And loneliness started to creep in.
It would be so easy to talk to Robbie, with his perfect balance of humor and honesty, about what had just happened. Wouldn’t it?
Skylar chewed her lip for a moment, judging he’d finished practice and returned home by now. Would it be weird to call him? She’d watched him masturbate this morning, after all. That tended to reduce any and all formalities. If she was being honest with herself, her main concern was that he wouldn’t answer.
Don’t be a wimp.If Eve could give up her dream to raise two kids at age twenty-two, Skylar could call a dude.
Not allowing herself another second of stalling, Skylar called Robbie.
What greeted her ears was a full-on party. No, arager.
Women and men and music and squeals of laughter.
The clinking of glasses.
She could hardly hear Robbie’s voice over the pandemonium. “Skylar?” shouted his deep voice. “Rocket, you there?”
Calling herself ten kinds of stupid, she hung up without saying a word.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Hours Earlier
Robbie couldn’t put a puck in the back of the net to save his life.
Either he was off his game, or someone had shrunk the goal to fuck with him.
His skates were too tight. The arena was warmer than usual, right?
Waiting for Coach to shut up and blow the whistle, he almost threw his stick in a burst of impatience.Come on.The only way to stop thinking about her was to play. Why did everything have to move in slow motion today of all days? He ground his teeth down hard into his mouthpiece, closed his eyes, and gave in to the inevitability of Skylar’s face and voice and scent materializing in his mind.
Today was the first Page Stakes where I felt like I was on a team.
All the trophies and medals and cups he’s won throughout his life and that might be the most memorable honor he’d ever been given. Having that girl tell him she liked having him on her side. That she felt less alone.
And he’d left.
He’d left with no intention of going back.
“Wake up, shit for brains,” one of his teammates made the mistake of saying on his way past Robbie, a cheap hit frombehind nearly causing a distracted Robbie to lose his balance. Apparently, the whistle had blown to resume play—and now he was about to blow, too. He’d always been taught to keep his anger suppressed. To laugh everything off. But nothing was funny today. Not a goddamn thing.
His gloves and stick were on the ice before he could register his own actions. It took him three seconds to catch up with the teammate who’d hit him, grab him by the back of his jersey, spin him around, and sucker punch him in the jaw. Everything exploded into motion at once. The whistle blew, shrill and prolonged, skates moved in their direction, hands twisting in Robbie’s jersey to pull him back, but not before the guy returned the favor in the form of a right cross.
God, it felt incredible. The pain, the distraction, the well-deserved punishment.
He wanted to bleed.
Sig was suddenly in front of Robbie, holding him back, his expression one of pure confusion. Of course, it would be. Everyone laughed at Robbie and he never took offense. He locked down the disappointment, grinned, and kept moving.
Not today.
Maybe not ever again.
Skylar would be cheering him on, too, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t she the one who encouraged him to stop suppressing his anger and discontent? To demand respect from his teammates? Punching someone probably wasn’t what she had in mind, but this was hockey. They had their own methods of getting a point across.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sig gritted, wrestling with Robbie.
“Call me shit for brains again,” Robbie shouted over his shoulder. “You’ll be watching the playoffs from your hospital bed.”
