Page 133 of The Home Grown
My temper rises from zero to one hundred before simmering back down after several deep breaths because the last thing I need is this getting out of hand.
I stare at the floor, trying to come up with anything to say to her that may make me feel better. A bitter retort, perhaps.
I’ve got nothing.
Nothing except a tiny voice in the back of my head whispering to me,she’s right, and Ellie’s not here because she realised she can do better.
She steps forward and puts a hand on my chest. A hand that doesn’t feel quite right. It feels heavy and tainted. It makes me think about Ellie’s hand, and how she touched me. How different she felt. And how she kissed me at the rink, with no care about who could see. No hiding in the shadows, meetings behind closed doors. And the feeling in my chest intensifies and I realise I’ve done exactly what Johnny warned me not to do—let myself get attached. Attached to someone who isn’t here. Someone who?—
I shake my head, desperate to push her out of my mind because what good is this? Pining after someone who’s already checked out.
“You need to go,” I say, stepping aside and moving towards the exit.
“Bettsy, don’t do this,” she says. “Hear me out and I promise I’ll stop the forum stuff. I mean, it’s getting old now, anyway.”
“Oh well, at least you admit that,” I say.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get a drink. Have a chat. Figure things out.”
I should say no. I should tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, but I can’t. Not because I want her, but the deep-rooted human desire to feel loved fights its way to the surface. Ellie doesn’t want me, but Rochelle can pretend enough to pass for someone who does.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe sheisthe best option for me. And maybe that’s enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ELLIE
Everyone turnsto look at me when I walk in. I wish I was exaggerating, but every single person turns in my direction and all I can do is smile, hoping Mike will appear from the crowd and save me.
But he doesn’t come.
I scan the faces, none of them familiar except for one. Rick. Sitting with a cluster of guys, drinking beer and laughing at something on the screen of someone’s phone.
He looks up at me, double taking before recognition dawns. His eyebrows pull together and he mouths something, something I can’t decipher. The guy on his left nudges his arm, and he looks away as I continue to scan the room.
Guys in suits, women in evening dresses, the heavy smell of expensive cologne, but nothing that I recognise. There’s no flash of auburn. No Mike.
Then I hear footsteps behind me. A dull thud as they grow closer—but they don’t sound like Mike, either.
I spin around anyway, greeted by a guy around an inch taller than me. He’s dressed in—you guessed it—a suit. Darkhair swept to the side, and he’s wearing glasses; thick black frames that remind me of Clark Kent.
“I’m—I’m looking for Mike Betts,” I say. “Is he here?”
His eyes widen and his expression changes. Shock? I can’t quite tell because he tries not to make it obvious, but it’s there. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Uh, Ellie, right?” he says. “Nice to see you again. I’m Danny.”
I take several seconds to realise I must have met him before, at Mike’s practice session, probably, but an interruption cuts our conversation short.
“Sorry, can I help you?” Another suited man, albeit a few inches shorter than Danny, comes to a stop behind us, angling himself towards me.
“I’m looking for?—”
“This is Bettsy’s missus,” Danny says.
The second man nods firmly and offers out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Brett Harris, Team GB Head Coach.”
“Ellie,” I say, returning the shake. “Thanks for having me.”
