The Sweetest Game (The Perfect Game 3)

“Don’t you have an assignment in another country you can send me on?” I suggested with a halfhearted laugh.

“No, I do not,” she said sternly. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t send you. ”

“Why are you out to get me?” I said it half-jokingly, but part of me wondered why she was being so hard on me.

Nora leveled her gaze to mine, a stray wisp of hair falling over one eye. “I’m not out to get you. I simply refuse to help you run away when it comes to this. He will get past it. And you’ll be there for him when he does. You just need to be patient with him right now. ”

“It’s not really my strong suit,” I said. “Patience, I mean. ”

“Honey, you’re a woman. You can do anything. And you will. ” She smiled and waved her hand in dismissal. “Now, get out of here and send me something pretty to look at. These new photographers don’t have your eye. ”

Without another word, I left Nora’s office and headed back to my desk. Like I’d done a million times already today, I checked both my cell phone and my work phone; neither showed signs of any missed calls. I hated living like this.

But Nora was right. I could do this. Jack would do this for me, wouldn’t he? Hell, I didn’t know what Jack would do at this point anymore.

I assumed Jack would still be on vocal strike when I got home from work, so I didn’t bother to acknowledge him when I walked through our front door and saw him watching TV in our living room.

“Cassie, bring me a beer. ”

I froze in our foyer; stopped walking, moving, breathing. “Oh, now you’re talking to me?” I belted out, still surprised by his demanding tone.

His disheveled head turned in my direction. “What the hell are you talking about?”

My temper hit the boiling point as I tossed my purse and keys on the hallway table and stalked to the living room. Hands on hips, I shouted, “Are you fucking delusional or something? Do you even realize that you haven’t spoken to me in almost three days?”

Jack glanced back at me from his usual TV-viewing spot on the leather sofa, his cast-covered arm resting on a throw pillow and his sock-covered feet propped on the ottoman. I watched as his eyebrows pulled together before slowly releasing. “You’re exaggerating,” he said flatly. “Beer me. ” Then he turned his focus back on the Mets versus Astros game on the television.

Tempted to pull a beer from the fridge and chuck it at his fucking head, I stormed through the kitchen before heading toward our bedroom. “Get off your ass and get it yourself,” I shouted as I slammed the door shut.

Angry tears burned at the back of my eyes and I wanted to scream and throw things. I felt like a prisoner in my own home. Whatever room Jack was in, I wanted to be nowhere near it, his rejection hurt me so badly. But the tears wouldn’t fall; I was too busy feeling pissed off to waste time crying. Grabbing my latest read, I sank against my pillows and cracked open the spine, wanting nothing more than to escape the hell our life had become for just a little while.

“Stop acting like a bitch,” Jack shouted through the closed door as he stomped through the kitchen.

My head snapped up. Did he just call me a bitch? Jack had never talked that way to me before. Ever. I slammed my book down on the bedside table and dialed the only person I thought could help me. The phone rang five times and I almost hung up when I heard his winded voice say, “Hello?”

“Dean?” I paused.

“What’s up, Sis?”

I smiled, the action feeling almost alien after the last few days. “Are you busy? Is this a bad time?” I listened as he struggled for breath.

“No, it’s fine. I just had to run upstairs. ”

“Do you think you could come out here for a little bit? I know you’re busy with work, but even if it’s just for a few days it would be great. I need your help with Jack. ”

He laughed a breathy sound into the phone. “Is he really that bad?”

“Let’s just say we’re not really seeing eye to eye right now, so maybe you should come out here and punch him in one. ”

He snorted. “I’ll gladly beat the shit out of him. So, what’s he doing?”

“Dean,” my tone turned serious. “He literally hasn’t spoken a single word to me in almost three days. Not. A. Word,” I said, pausing between each word for effect.

“Say what? You’re joking. ” Dean half laughed.

My frustration boiling over, I balled my hand into a fist and punched my thigh. “I’m not joking. It’s not funny. I need your help. ”

“Okay, sorry. I can’t believe he’s being like that,” he said. “I mean, I can. But I can’t believe he’s being like that to you. ”