Scored (V-Card Diaries 1)

Tired of looking on the bright side, tired of hoping for the best, tired of pretending that things are going to be better tomorrow. My optimistic nature has always served me well in the past, but there’s a difference between being optimistic and straight-up crazy. Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.

“How about you, Ian? Any phobias?” Evie asks as I approach her desk to collect my packet of materials from the cutest teacher I’ve ever had, and one I’m not eager to leave behind.

If Fred works out a trade, I could be gone by early next week. Once these things are set in motion, they move fast. This could be one of my last classes with Evie and tonight…

Well, tonight might be the only night we ever have.

Which…sucks.

“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” she adds in a softer voice, clearly misunderstanding the reason for my slumping shoulders. “And you don’t have to share this project, either. Sharing is optional today.”

“Thanks.” I force a smile as I accept the manilla envelope. “But I don’t mind sharing. I’ve always had a thing with heights. Not a fan.”

“Then you should probably get off your high horse,” Sven the Dick mutters from behind me.

I turn, my temper flaring—fast and hot, like a pile of dry leaves hit with a blowtorch. “Shut the fuck up, Sven. Now. If I hear another fucking word out of your mouth today, you’re going to regret it.”

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t look intimidated.

He looks…pleased, like he’s finally gotten what he’s wanted from me for so long. “Oh, yeah? What are you going to do to me, Boy Scout? Report me to management? Because I’m pretty sure they already know I’m twice the player you’ll ever be. That’s why I’m still here. Even though you’ve been trying to get rid of me since the day I was drafted.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I seethe, my jaw so tight my molars are grinding together. “And as far as I can tell, the only thing you’re good at is throwing tantrums like a fucking two-year-old.”

Pete laughs. “Nah, my nephew has more self-control than Sven.”

“You have no room to talk,” I say, my voice rising as I spin to glare a hole in Pete’s five-inch forehead. “You act like a toddler, too. Half the players in this room do, and it’s ridiculous. Where’s your pride in yourself? In the game? Do you know how many men out there would kill for your job?”

“And how many would kill for yours,” Sven shoots back, surging to his feet, pointing his scissors at me across the table. “We’re a fucking incredible team, but instead of being grateful for our talent and every kick-ass comeback we made last year, you bitched and moaned about sportsmanship and how things look in the press. You’re a pussy team captain, Boy Scout. A whiny pussy. That’s why this team is failing. It’s not us, it’s you, you condescending son of a bitch.”

For a moment, I think I’m going to hit him. I want to so badly I can almost feel the explosion of pain across my knuckles as my fist connects with his face.

But then I feel Evie’s hand on my elbow and the rage melts away so fast it leaves my skin ten degrees colder.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, turning to drop the packet back on Evie’s desk. “I’m sorry.”

“Ian, please,” she says as I start toward the door. “Stay and let’s talk this out. We might be able to make some progress if—”

I don’t know if she stops talking or if I’m just out of earshot, but by the time I reach the end of the hallway, I can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in my ears and the resigned voice in my head saying this is it.

This is the last time I’ll ever push through the double doors leading out onto the street as the captain of the Ice Possums.

Chapter 23

Evie

As soon as Ian’s gone, the room explodes in deep, angry shouts.

Most of the players seem to be on Ian’s side, but the ones who aren’t are louder and meaner.

I try to reestablish order, but tempers are running way too hot. I’m starting to worry they might actually start punching each other when an even louder voice booms, “That’s it. Get out. All of you.”

I glance over to see Derrick standing by the door, circling a frustrated arm. “Get out,” he says again, his voice rough and raw sounding in the sudden silence. “Get the fuck out. Go home. And know everything that’s waiting for you on Monday morning is exactly what you deserve. Including the pay you’ll be docked for missing art therapy this afternoon.”

“I’m not missing shit,” Pete shouts, the veins standing out on his neck. “I’m right here.”