You make me sick.
I heard my father’s voice as I waited for similar words to come out of Coach’s mouth, and before I could stop it, I felt a brick wall climb higher and higher in my mind, crowding out any weakness.
I was impenetrable before he ever opened his mouth.
“Do I need to be worried about you?”
The unexpected question landed like a shot to my chest, and I clenched my teeth, fighting to keep my expression even.
Remi’s face was the first thing that popped into my mind, the shock and disgust and anger as she cradled her hand to her chest after landing that well-deserved blow.
Yes.
That was what I wanted to say.Yes, you should be worried about me.I was worried about myself. But I didn’t know how to admit that. To stop the ugly cycle I’d found myself in.
So I took a deep breath and gave him an arrogant smirk.
“No, Coach. I’m right as fucking rain.”
I clipped his shoulder as I walked away, marveling at how much you could hate yourself and still stay standing.
Chapter Six
Archer
For a long time, I’d wondered whether there was something wrong with me. There was enough questionable shit I’d done in my life—stemming from the way my father raised me—that I’d always struggled to understand why I did some of the things I did. But the thrill I got from antagonizing Remi Sinclair had me asking myself that question all over again.
I swear, she was giving the dogs something to make them poop more than usual.
The second day I showed up, she took one look at me and pushed the shovel into my hands. Not a single word. There was no one else at the shelter besides the two of us, and while I cleaned up the yard, I watched her work her ass off—feeding each dog, filling their water bowls, answering the phones, and generally being very skilled at not asking me for a single thing.
If I was doing just about anything else, it would have been a beautiful day. It was hot and sunny, and the smell was ... well ... suffice it to say, I’d have given anything for my community service hours to take place during the winter, when everything was frozen over.
Three hours of picking up dog shit—while being ignored—was starting to feel likehellwould freeze over before the leggy redheadwith pretty eyes would be civil to me. Never, in all my years of playing football, had someone disliked me this much from the moment they met me.
Not only did she not expect me to be perfect, but she also glared at me like I’d personally done her harm. It was fucking exhilarating. Maybe because I’d finally met someone who let their worst impulses out to play, just like me.
Remi said nothing to me, simply signed the paperwork when I was done and tightened her jaw when I said, “See you tomorrow, boss.”
On the third day, she was waiting for me with a mop bucket. Her fiery hair was slicked back from her face, knotted in a bun low on the nape of her neck. Lazily, I perused this neater version of the woman I’d seen before.
“I like it the other way.”
Her eyes flashed. They looked blue today. How did they look blue? “Good thing I didn’t ask your opinion.”
“Your eyes are a different color.”
Remi’s mouth fell open for a moment, then snapped shut. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Let me guess—you like the green better. I really don’t care.”
“I—”
“You ever used a mop?” she asked.
Five words, and a sick urge to keep stoking whatever pissy energy she was aiming at me gripped me by the fucking throat.
I pursed my lips and studied the bucket, the long wooden handle she held in her hand. “Looks pretty complicated. You might want to show me.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, then a soft smile curled her lips up at the edges. “If you’ve got enough IQ to hurl a ball down a field, I think you can manage just fine. But if that floor isn’t clean enough to eat off of? Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of practice, because I’ll make you do it again until it is.”