Page 20 of Game Misconduct

“Have you seen him?” She exaggerates fanning herself.

“You know hipsters aren’t my type.”

The guy has a handlebar mustache and exclusively wears flannel and skinny jeans. He’s also about twenty-four. If I wanted to hook up with someone younger than me, I’d give Luke a chance. But I don’t want to mess things up with my new bestie. We’ve grown close in the last few weeks, talking all the time. He still flirts outrageously, but he doesn’t ask me out, and that’s really all I can ask for. We’re just having fun.

Ceci raises her brows. “So what is your type? I can’t remember the last time I saw you take someone home.”

That’s because I’m all talk and no follow-through. It’s hard enough to let my guard down around my friends, much less someone about to see me naked.

“I don’t even know what I like,” I admit. “I just know it when I see it.”

Looks aren’t the big attraction for me; it’s what’s inside that gets me going. Typically, I go for bigger guys in bars and apps. Muscles are nice to look at, and they’re not the be-all and end-all, but I also don’t want to feel like I’m about to break a short, skinny guy in half when I climb onto his lap and ride his cock. I thrive on praise and encouragement, and a well-timed “good girl” can nearly make me come from that alone.

But that doesn’t happen often with a one-night stand, and I’m not girlfriend material. I care too much about myself and my career to hold space for someone else in my life.

For years, my parents praised my brains and my drive, but my mother has never had a single nice thing to say about my appearance. My hair is too red, my face too chubby, my freckles too pronounced. And don’t get her started on my size. She was a college cheerleader, the flyer at the top of the pyramid, and she’s never let me forget the fact that I’m five foot eight and take after my father’s family—in both frame and face.

To this day, she brags about her pregnancy weight. I’m a good hundred and twenty pounds above that, and her pointed comments about weight loss drugs and exercise routines got old years ago. She doesn’t like that I weigh more than my professional hockey player brother. As much as I try not to let it bother me, to accept my body for what it looks like, the poison she injected into my brain as a kid—and continues to spew—is never far from my mind.

I stopped being able to wear her shoes by the time I was ten, and I’ve been taller than her since I was twelve. When I was growing up, playing hockey, field hockey, and then college lacrosse, my wider build was an asset—to everyone except her.

My sister-in-law Elsy is plus-size, just like me. Until she and Wyatt got together, all of his exes were thin, blond supermodel types. So were all the women his friends dated. It’s hard to love my body when I’ve never seen someone who looks like me get their fairy-tale ending.

For a minute, in that Ohio hotel room, I almost thought it was possible—that it was real. But I know better than that.

Now I cut out before I can get disappointed. Put the brakes on before he can do it first. I’m willing to put myself out there, though. I have to try. Because if I don’t, there’s no chance of it happening. I can do this. I can do hard things.

Even if it’s fucking terrifying.