Page 62 of Endurance
“I’m trying!” I roar, ramming my hands through my hair. “But if she’s not making me feel like shit, it’s Vi. And if it’s not Vi, now I’ve got bloody Indie up my arse. These women are ruining my life.”
Booker laughs openly and it makes me want to tackle him to the ground. How dare he mock my pain. “Do you have a death wish?”
“No,” he laughs again. “I just think it’s funny. You’re blaming your problems on the women in your life, but the truth of the matter is you’ve been a prat for a long time and your conscience finally isn’t letting you get away with it anymore. It’s revolted against you and turned you into”—he pauses, looking me up and down like I’m a bloody alien—“a human.”
“Sod off,” I growl and step into the lift. I immaturely try to close the doors before he gets in and he looks at me like I’m a moron.
I feel it.
He props himself on the railing as we begin our decent. “You only have what, two more times you have to see her? The match on Wednesday and then that fundraiser we’re all going to, right?”
“And the stupid magazine interview,” I mumble through clenched teeth.
“All right then. Three times and then you’re home free. Just focus on the prize. Tonight is important. You need to reconnect with the team. We miss you. You’re our captain and we’ve not had you around for three weeks now. You need to sober up, man up, and be a leader. Let them know you’re ready to come back, boots swinging.”
I sniff and nod. “You’re right. Thanks, Book.”
“Don’t mention it.” He looks at me one more time as the lift doors open. He turns and begins walking backwards away from me. “And hey, whatever happens, I think if football doesn’t work out, you could find work in a theatre. That little rant up there was an epic fucking performance. I’m thinking…Vagina Monologues.”
He makes a peace sign around his lips and his tongue darts out between his fingers. His laugh turns to a girlie squeal as I lunge toward him, tearing through the lobby after him.
Fuck me. For a keeper, he’s bloody fast.
“You don’t have a choice!” Indie exclaims as she darts back and forth between my closet and my bed, laying out options of clothing. “I’m never here on the weekends anymore. We haven’t had a proper make up session since you screamed at me for telling Tanner he was an arse, even though he was. You’re coming with me to Welly’s.”
“No, I’m not,” I groan.
“Yes, you are!” She stamps her foot. “Belle, we haven’t even had a chance to celebrate your small victory with Dr. Miller. This isn’t like us. We celebrate our successes in this family.”
I shake my head at her. “Well, sis, I don’t feel like going to a pub with a bunch of bloody footballers. I’m tapped out on footballers at the moment. Tanner will probably think I’ve come for him, and I’ll have to play the part of the dutiful girlfriend.”
“No, you won’t. Booker said Tanner’s not coming.”
My head snaps to attention. “He’s not?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I don’t know why, but he won’t be there.”
“Interesting,” I mumble, chewing on my lip.
“We won’t stay for long.” She tosses some shoes on the bed and adjusts her glasses to look back at me. “I just want to introduce you to a couple of my favourite guys and then we can go have a laugh somewhere else.”
I moan.
“Pretty please?” she whines.
“Fine. Damn you and your cherubic face. If you and Camden ever have children, you’re fucked.”
She laughs and gets a daydreamy twinkle in her eyes that makes me sick.
Indie selects my hottest pair of black leather skinnies that have double zippers on each side. She grabs a light knitted sweater that hangs dramatically off one shoulder and yells at me when I try to wear a bra with it.
“You have gorgeous, big, perky breasts. Enjoy them while you can.”
I roll my eyes and finish it off with a pair of nude heels and super dark purple lipstick, feeling about as good as I possibly can considering I’ll be walking into the lion’s den.
We head out, but I make Indie stop at a wine bar for a couple glasses before we make our way to Welly’s in Brick Lane. I couldn’t stomach the thought of going in there completely sober and being around loads of men who act like Tanner Harris.
Thankfully, Indie brightens my mood immensely with stories about athlete’s foot on dicks. Apparently, it’s a thing. Why she thinks she wants a career in sports medicine is beyond me.
