“Who?” Was that her voice? That raspy, croaky noise? Cleo cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink.
“Well I sure as shit hope you’re not jizzing your pants over my big brother or I’ll have to kill you in your sleep.”
Cleo laughed at the same time she was swallowing, causing a marshmallow to lodge in her airway. She coughed into her elbow, her sight blurring and eyes stinging as she choked. Molly cracked open the bottle of water from the bag at her feet and handed it to Cleo who grumbled a thanks and gulped down the cool relief.
“Ladies.” Molly’s brother saluted the two women as he passed, followed by Linc, whose impassive face Cleo couldn’t read.
Cleo’s face burned hotter. Not only was she mortified to be seen at a hockey game, but to choke on her own tongue at the sight of a jock in a suit was shameful. She managed a small smile and a nod at Will, as the two other players walked past.Pull yourself together, woman!
Someone behind her sniggered. “As if any of the Pirates would wantherheart.”
It was almost word for word what Archie Abram, her high school crush, had said to her when they were fifteen, in front of all their friends.
I’m not saying you’re fat, but it looks like you were poured into your clothes and someone forgot to say “when”.
A gasp lodged in her chest and unshed tears burned her eyelids at the memory. The barbs about her appearance had started in high school, but they never stung any less, no matter how often they were thrown. Molly’s fist clenched on the table and her jaw was firm-set. Cleo gave her an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Causing a scene would only make it worse. Experience had taught her if she didn’t react, they’d stop eventually.
Cups and spoons clicked and rattled behind Cleo, followed by the dull thud of a thump. “Shut your fucking mouth, Johnny. Why do you always have to be such an asshole?” Will’s defense of her against the stranger did little to uncoil the anxiety and self-loathing pooling in her stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Lincoln. Did he feel the same as Johnny?
“Let’s go.”
Molly didn’t object. She had to know Cleo well enough to know this wasn’t the time to make a stand.
It was time for Cleo to go home, set fire to the dumb sweater, and cry where the asshole jocks couldn’t see her.
Cleo’s chair screeched against the wooden floor as she pushed back from the table. Cheeks on fire, she grabbed her purse before standing. She straightened her spine and raised her chin. She’d be damned if she let that asshole see he’d hurt her. Something ignited deep inside her and she spun to face the now quiet table of men who wouldn’t meet her gaze, Lincoln included.
“Hey, asshole.” She bent to the floor, stood, and held out an empty hand toward the guy who was rubbing his bicep, she assumed from the thump Molly’s brother had given it. “I found your nose, it was over here in my business.”
Will sniggered, Lincoln’s face split into a wide grin, and Johnny mumbled something under his breath.
“Sorry, what did you say? I don’t speak idiot.” She didn’t wait for a reaction, but Will gave her a reassuring nod as she turned and left the café.
They walked home in silence, Cleo stewing in her thoughts and Molly typing on her phone. Shame and embarrassment crawled over Cleo’s body, but the cold was bone deep and she couldn’t tear off the sweater encasing her in her mortification. As soon as she crossed the threshold into their apartment, she yanked it off, balled it up, and threw it at the trash can.
Molly swooped in to rescue it. “No ma’am. Not happening. You can purge your rage on that one, singular asshole, but you’re keeping the hoody, just in case.”
“In case what?”
Her friend shrugged. “You decide to go back.”
Cleo snorted. “That is also not happening, my dear, sweet, and optimistic as fuck bestie. Hockey sucks and jocks are assholes.”
“Don’t hold back, Cho-Cho, tell me how you really feel. What about Phone Boy?”
“What about him? Foolish crush on an imaginary person. Nothing more.”
“Still hasn’t replied yet, huh?”
Cleo clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes at her friend who held her hands up in surrender.
“Wine?” Molly made her way into the kitchen, while Cleo sank onto the sofa and tucked her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around her shins.
“Wine doesn’t cut it. I need to stop the emotional hemorrhaging.”
“Okay, drama llama. Tequila it is.”
***
