Page 47 of Player Misconduct
I can do this. Dinner. Closure. Then home. Then sleep. The nausea will subside. I just hope it does before Aleksi comes in six more weeks when pre-season starts back up.
Easy, right?
Chapter Nine
Kendall
I never thought I’d find myself standing in a closet that costs more than my entire apartment, but here I am, surrounded by sequins, satin, and one terrifyingly judgmental full-length mirror.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind the room full of three women who look way too entertained by my misery.
Vivi arches a perfect brow as she holds up a sleek black dress. “You’re meeting your ex-husband for dinner in downtown Seattle. Honey, that’s not ‘just catching up.’ That’s revenge couture.”
“I don’t want revenge,” I mutter. “I just want him to see me and… maybe choke a little.”
Cammy bursts out laughing from her spot on the bed, where she’s sitting cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn. “So, youdowant revenge. You just want it classy.”
“Exactly,” Vivi says, triumphant, as if I’ve just admitted something profound. “We’ll give him heart palpitations before dessert.”
Isla, curled up in an armchair with a glass of wine, tips her head toward me. “Honestly, you should. He dumped you for a cheerleader. If I were you, I’d show up in something that says, ‘I’m thriving and you’re balding.’”
That earns a snort from me. “He’s not balding.”
Though I won’t lie. That kind of karma would feel good. He’s always been obsessed with his hair.
“Yet,” Isla says. “But time’s coming for him. Let’s give it a head start.”
Vivi shoves another hanger into my hands, ignoring my protests. “Try this one.”
It’s emerald silk, the kind of dress that probably has its own insurance policy. I tug it on, wobbling as I zip it up, and step out into the bedroom like I’m walking into battle.
Cammy whistles. “Damn. Okay, girl… we’re getting somewhere.”
“Too much?” I ask, turning toward the mirror.
“Not enough,” Vivi says, circling me like a stylist at Fashion Week. “You’re petite. The slit gives you legs for days. Trey’s going to lose his mind when he sees I let another man benefit from my wardrobe.”
I laugh despite myself. “He’ll survive.”
Isla takes another sip of wine. “So will you. Eventually.”
“See, that’s the kind of optimism I need,” I say dripping with sarcasm, and the girls crack up.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine. That my stomach hasn’t felt like a rollercoaster all day, or that the faint smell of Vivi’s perfume doesn’t make my nausea spike.
The nap yesterday helped and I thought I was out of the dark, but now it’s starting to creep back.
“Okay, next.” Vivi claps her hands, snapping me out of it.
I duck back into the closet and wriggle out of the silk. My head feels fuzzy. My boobs ache. My patience is hanging by a thread.
“I swear, if I try on one more dress, my nipples might file for divorce,” I call out, voice muffled through the fabric.
Cammy snorts. “TMI, Doc.”
“Boob pain and mood swings?” Isla says, all faux-casual. “Sounds familiar.”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, stepping out in another dress—shorter this time, with dangerous cleavage Vivi insists is “tastefully slutty.”
