Page 38 of The Shot You Missed
“Sure. Quit trying to change the subject. Are you going to consider it?”
Am I? Logically, I know Lola and my agent are right. It would probably be smart to tell the world I’m Violet Quinn. If we timed it right, it could bring a lot more attention to my new book, and that would give me more sway to do things the way I want to do them when the publisher and I disagree.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask. Now, when’s your next date with Sebastian?”
“That wasn’t a date.”
“You’re the worst liar.”
“Just a realist, Lols.”
“A real pro at denying what’s obvious to the rest of us, maybe.” My best friend lets go of my hands and repositions her laptop on her lap. “Either that, or you are woefully ignorant about love for someone who spends her life writing about it.”
It’s probably a mix of both. But my real flaw?
Cowardice.
And since that cowardice keeps me safe, I have no desire to shed it in favor of bravery.
Bravery leads you to do foolish things, like surprise the boy you’re in love with at a bonfire a day before he’s expecting you soyou can confess your feelings. Bravery leads you to getting your heart ripped out when you see that boy kissing someone else.
In my experience, bravery breeds rejection.
Maybe that makes it the real flaw, and cowardice the virtue.
So, once again, I embrace cowardice and simply shrug at Lola’s comment.
fourteen
INDIGO
The Rogues losegame four in a hard-fought battle, three to two, which means they’re traveling back home for a fifth game.
“Damn.” Lola stands from the couch, stretching. “That was a brutal game. Denver’s offense was relentless.”
They really had been. Frankly, it’s impressive Sebastian only let three through. The Stags made it past the Rogues’s defensemen often enough that they were able to take forty shots on goal tonight. Which means Sebastian stopped thirty-seven goals.
“Tell your man not to beat himself up when he calls.”
Ignoring the pleasant little flip in my stomach at Lola’s words, I roll my eyes. “Not my man, but okay.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she sing-songs as she heads toward her bedroom with a little wave of her fingers.
And I do when he calls an hour later. I tell myself he’s not mine. That he never will be. But that I can manage to be his friend.
I can.
“Hey, hotshot. Good game tonight.”
“Did you watch the same game we just played?” Sebastian asks. He sounds tired. “I was a sieve.”
“You were not,” I protest. Yeah, he let three goals through, but his team left him undefended way too often, which is a failure by the defensemen, not Bash. “You stopped thirty-seven attempts. That’s ten more than Denver’s goalie had to stop.”
He sighs. “I wasn’t locked in tonight. I got in my head.”
“You’ll make up for it at home.”
