Lucky Number Eleven by Adriana Locke

Author:Adriana Locke [Locke, Adriana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Lucky Number Eleven ~ Adriana Locke
Publisher: Umbrella Publishing Inc.
Published: 2017-09-05T18:30:00+00:00

I’VE LOOKED BETTER.

My eyes are swollen, the locks of my hair stuck together from sweat, day-old hair gel, and wrestling with my pillow all night. I shouldn’t have drunk anything, let alone as much as I did. But I’ll cut myself some slack and realize I was a little overwhelmed.

Brushing my teeth, I spit out the toothpaste and rinse it down the drain. My mouth still tastes like puke. And regret.

I fucking hate this.

I’m a great wide receiver, which means I can make decisions on the fly. I have to be able to move with the ever-changing field conditions from play to play. Thinking ahead, anticipating calls and defenses are things I specialize at. How I’ve managed to take all those skills and not use them in my real life is astounding.

Looking in the mirror, I don’t like what I see, and it has nothing to do with the eyes or hair or the line running down my cheek from the seam on the couch cushion where I ended the night. It has everything to do with what’s beyond that and the panic that’s sitting there, mocking me, threatening to bust loose.

The doorbell rings. Maybe it’s my hangover, but it sure as hell sounds like it’s not just ringing, but blaring. I head down the hall and wince as it rings again. Then a third time.

“I’m fucking coming,” I shout, grabbing the deadbolt and snapping it . . . just before I look out the peephole. Finn must hear it click because he shoves the door open, almost knocking me into the wall.

I don’t ask why he’s here. He doesn’t bother to say hello. There’s no need for formalities.

I’m not scared of many men. Besides my father, I can’t really think of anyone. But Finn has me taking a step or two back and wondering how in the hell I’m going to diffuse this situation.

Then I realize I’m not.

I’m fucked.

“How long have you known?” he growls, his nostrils flaring as he looks down at me.

“Finn—”

“Answer me!” he bellows.

“She told me last night.”

He paces a circle, clenching his fists, trying to calm himself down. I’ve seen him do this in games and in the locker room and even at a party once where a guy threatened the girl he was seeing. I can never remember him doing it quite like this though.

My quick-thinking skills are gone and I’m left scrambling to figure out how to put this. I force a swallow. “Finn, honestly, I’m sorry—”

The words are ripped from my mouth by a crisp right hand, whipping across my face—fist closed—and rocking my head back. My face moves out of sync, my jaw working to catch up with the rest of me. I see the left coming and roll underneath it and pop up a few feet to his left and out of punching distance.

Wiping some blood off my chin, I glare at him. “Feel better now?”

“No.”

“Go on. Do it again.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Do it again. See if it helps. Come on, motherfucker.

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