I glare at him, but he just shrugs. “Okay,” I say finally, dropping his hand to his lap.
He looks at me, a blush rising up his neck and into his cheeks. His full lips drop into a frown, and he pushes his fingers through his dirty-blond hair, tugging on the strands. “Thanks,” he says awkwardly.
I give him a hard look. “Do you understand what you did today? Do you have any idea?”
“Broke a lot of shit.” He sighs. “Look, I’ll pay you back, okay?”
“Do you think I want your money, you washed-up piece of shit?” He flinches, and I almost feel bad, but I’m so fucking angry.
“I guess—I mean, I don’t know.” He gives me a remorseful look and his gaze moves to his hands.
I grab his chin and force him to look at me, our faces inches apart. “What the fuck did those guys say to you?”
“They called me weak—” He chokes on the word, and another tear slides down his cheek. “They said it was my fault that we didn’t make it to the playoffs last year.”
“That’s it?” I drop my hand with a scoff. “You really letthatrile you up? You’re such a selfish prick.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “You don’t understand. They were?—”
My anger crests again like a fucking tidal wave, and before he can finish his sentence, I haul him up by the front of his sweatshirt. Michaels yelps in surprise as I reposition my grip tothe back of his hoodie, dragging him like a naughty cat, and push him from the office and down the hallway.
“What the fuck?” Michaels whines as he trips and stumbles. You’d never guess this guy had any dexterity or grace at all.
I open the backdoor and practically throw him into the alley. It’s just after dinnertime, so the sun has already set, and the rain is coming down in a steady drizzle. Michaels lands on his ass in a puddle. He squints up at me angrily, shielding the streetlight from his eyes with one hand.
He scrambles to his feet, and I can’t help it; I hit him—right in the mouth. He goes down again, and this time when our gazes clash, his eyes are wet with tears as he touches his split lip. But he’s not angry like I expect, just bewildered.
“You were great!” I grit my teeth in frustration. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is almost too intense to watch. “You could have been a legend. I get that bad luck fucked your life up,” I growl, “but how did you fall this far? Where’s the cocky little shit who proved every sports commentator wrong?”
My gut twists, and I turn on my heel.
“Bastian, wait.” His voice cracks. “I don’t know where else to go.”
I pause with my hand on the open door, and I turn to study him. “It’s a big fucking city, Michaels.”
“I know. I just…I don’t know anyone else here anymore.”
I feel the slightest tug of empathy deep in my chest—but the residual anger in my system snuffs it out. “That’s not my problem. I’m not your friend. You want someone to give you a break? Then get your shit together. Right now, you’re just pathetic.”
Then, I leave him and walk inside.
CHAPTER TWO
FIONA
Iclimb into my red BMW and slam the door, my gaze dropping to the pile of belongings in the backseat as I throw the car in reverse and pull out of the cemetery parking lot. When I shift into drive with a heavy sigh, I spare a glance in my rearview mirror, swallowing hard as I watch the graveyard’s wrought-iron fence disappear from sight. That’s about as much closure as I can get right now, given the circumstances.
My mother was a complicated woman, but she was not, in fact, a loving mother and wife as her headstone implies. Honestly, she stopped being a loving mother when I was in elementary school, spending her time drunk more often than not. I helped her hide her addiction most of my life, but it got worse when I left for college. I’m surprised she hung on this long.
People expected a bright future from Daisy Flowers—no joke, that was her real name—a beautiful, spunky redhead with a big personality. But she amounted to absolutely nothing.
I hate that I look like her: my hair, my green eyes, my freckles, and my pale, almost translucent skin. She’s all I see when Ilook in the mirror—or the woman I remember from when I was a little girl.
I hide all these feelings, of course.
My friends think I’m bubbly, sweet, funny—an extrovert to my core, just like Daisy. It's not their fault they don’t really know me.
Now that I’ve lost her, I’m just tired.
