Page 54 of Game Misconduct

twenty-one

. . .

Bex

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

“You already said that.” Ceci’s dry voice filters through the booze fogging up my brain.

“Fuck.”

She giggles so hard she hiccups. “That would solve all your problems.”

My head falls forward onto my arms. They make a very inadequate cushion. “Nooooo.”

“Yesssss.”

I kissed him. I can’t believe I kissed him.

Me, the team’s neuroscientist. Him, the player I hate most.

Although… do I really hate him? I don’t know. I want to, so desperately it makes my teeth ache. No, wait, that’s how much I want him. Not to hate him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Why does he have to be so fucking pretty? Not, like, pretty, but so fucking beautiful he takes my breath away. Even sweaty and smelly from the game, his hair limp and greasy, there was a pulse of attraction that I couldn’t wish away.

I didn’t want to wish it away.

I wanted to pull him closer, to wrap myself in his arms and breathe him in, stink and all. To escape into a world where sunshine and puppies win and love never leaves and⁠—

The world suddenly tilts seventeen degrees to the left, and I wobble on my barstool. “I think I’m drunk.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ceci snarks back.

Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I take a deep, calming breath. But it’s too late. I’m too far gone.

Clapping a hand over my mouth, I hurry to my feet, knocking over my barstool. The loud crash of the wood hitting the sticky floor echoes in the noisy bar.

I rush to the bathroom, bursting through the first door I see. There’s only about four seconds to spare before I let it fly, hurling into the open trash can. I brace one hand on the tiled wall, the other holding my hair from my face. Tears streak down my cheeks as I expel the contents of my stomach until I’m spent.

“Uh…” A male voice alerts me I’m not alone.

Grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser, I wipe my mouth, then look over my shoulder.

A man stands at a urinal, his pants unzipped and dick out. He’s looking back at me, causing his aim to go… off center.

Our eyes meet.

“This is the men’s room,” he blusters, his face red.

Spinning around to face the other direction, I wait until I hear him zip up, then footsteps as he moves to the single sink. He washes his hands—thank goodness—and then reaches over me for the paper towels.

I squirm out of the way before he can drip on me.

“Well… nice meeting you,” he says awkwardly, before he wrenches the door open.

Once he’s gone, I let out a heavy sigh of relief, then cross to the sink and wash my hands and face. Luckily, everything made it into the trash can, and not on me. My red lipstick, however, is smeared all over my chin and cheeks, so I scrub it off until it’s all gone. The lack of my signature color makes my skin sallow and draws attention to the bags under my eyes.