Page 112 of Faking the Goal

Thunk.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don't realize how long I've been standing there contemplating whether repeated blunt-force trauma might knock some common sense into me until Zach pats me on the back.

When I glance over, he's already fully dressed, his duffel slung over one shoulder, his truck keys dangling from his fingers.

"You know what to do next, don't you?"

I let my head hit the locker one last time.

"Get on my knees, crawl to her apartment, and beg until either she forgives me or calls the cops?"

Zach laughs. "I was gonna say grovel, but yeah. Pretty much."

"Great." I grunt.

I shake my head as Zach walks off, then reach down to finish stripping off the rest of my clothes.

At least I know what I need to do first.

Apologize.

And fuck, now that I've finally admitted the rest to myself, I want to tell her that I like her.

I want to say the words to her almost as badly as I want her to forgive me, which is exactly why I know I shouldn't.

Not yet.

Because right now, Taylor probably wouldn't believe a fucking word out of my mouth anyway. Four days ago, I made her feel like shit over who she is, and now I'm supposed to show up and tell her I've realized I have feelings for her?

Even I know how fucked up that would sound.

Besides, telling her I like her doesn't fix what I did. It doesn't erase what I said or magically make her trust me again.

So the rest can wait.

First, I need to make things right with her. However long that takes. And if I can somehow earn back enough of what I destroyed that she actually wants me around again...

Then I'll tell her.

As much as every newly enlightened, apparently lovesick part of my brain wants that to be tomorrow, I have a feeling I've got a hell of a lot of work to do first.

CHAPTER 17

TAYLOR

It's the first day of finals week, which means I'm not supposed to be anywhere near Velvet Lounge right now.

Whenever midterms or finals roll around, I take the entire week off. It's a little tradition I started after freshman year when I learned the hard way that trying to juggle exams and Velvet at the same time is a special kind of self-inflicted torture.

But this time, I couldn't bring myself to take the week off.

Moving drained a painful chunk of the savings I'd spent months building up, and every time I look at my bank account now, I feel the sudden urge to throw up. Technically, I could survive without working this week, but watching that number drop as much as it did has left me itching to build it back up as quickly as possible.

So here I am, working during finals week. And because two of our cocktail waitresses called out sick tonight, what was supposed to be a regular shift turned into me picking up their tables and staying several hours later than I planned.

It's nearly three in the morning, my feet are fucking throbbing, my back hurts, and whatever energy the Red Bull gave me disappeared hours ago. I still have studying to do when I get home, which is hilarious considering I'm currently not convinced I have enough brain function left to remember my own zip code.