Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The silence in the car, broken only by the revving of the engine as Colton shifted gears on the highway, crackled between them, and Jif rubbed her hands over her arms. The adrenaline from Donte and Corey’s confrontation, combined with her brother’s icy disapproval, raised goosebumps along her skin.
Her hands shook as she wrapped herself in a tight hug, wishing she’d brought a jacket.
Wishing she had the courage to turn up the vent or flick the switch for the heated seats, instead of folding in on herself, hoping Colton wouldn’t release the tension of his tightly clenched jaw in a blistering tirade, even if she did deserve it.
She’d failed Donte, leading him on, letting him assume an interest she didn’t have. She’d failed Corey, too. If she’d been honest, maybe none of this would have happened.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the chasm between them, far wider than the actual distance.
“Damn it, Jif.” Colton thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.
“Geez, all that talk about appreciating what I’ve done for you, then you go and pull a stunt like this!
I thought you loved the Raptors enough not to get in the middle of teammates.
There’s drama, and someone always ends up traded, and we need Donte and Corey if we want a shot at another banner.
Never mind offense versus defense... Are you trying to make the biggest mess possible?
Is this some bid for attention? Did Mom. ..”
His voice cut off abruptly, teeth clamping shut with an audible click.
Heat flooded Jif’s cheeks. Anger, but also a sick twist of shame. She’d always been careful not to pit any of the guys against each other, because she did love the team, and she never wanted to be the reason for friction among them.
As for his accusation about wanting attention... She’d be happy if Corey never glanced her way again. And she’d be ecstatic if pictures of the evening never hit the papers.
“Corey...”
“I don’t care,” Colton cut her off. “I literally do not care. I’ve warned you again and again about dating my teammates, and you insist on doing it anyway.”
“I’m not!” The injustice of Colton’s accusations crashed adrenaline back into her system. “I don’t want to date any of them.”
“Sure, okay,” Colton sneered, his voice edged in sarcasm so sharp it almost drew blood.
“And what about the poor sop you’re supposed to be with?
What does he think about you going out every weekend with other men?
Or is he even aware? Awfully convenient we’ve never met him.
Easier, too, right? No way to compare notes. ”
Jif’s brain short-circuited in absolute shock at Colton’s insinuations.
“I have never...” she squawked, her voice breaking as the words tripped over themselves to come out. “How dare you? I can’t even...”
He slumped in his seat, realizing he’d crossed a line as Jif stared, open-mouthed, unable to collect an entire sentence that didn’t begin with calling her brother a foul name and end with her screaming imprecations in his face.
Her thoughts spun and spiraled: wanting to defend her relationship with Miles; insisting that, though she liked to have fun, she’d never cheated; Corey’s actions and Donte’s defense.
Her skull still ached from where Corey had wrenched at her hair.
Yelling won’t accomplish anything, her mother’s voice reminded her.
But I want to yell! she screamed back. I’m tired of pretending to be something—someone—I’m not.
She wasn’t who Colton claimed—a cheater, a player.
She wasn’t who he didn’t claim, either—at least, not out loud.
She could take her pick of all the dirty words guys liked to call girls, ignoring the way they compared notches on their bedposts and body counts with no shame, but quick to judge any girl who did the same. Slut, tramp, whore.
And not only guys. Girls were often worse when it served their own cruel purposes.
The team bicycle.
She’d been called enough of them that she liked to pretend they’d lost their sting, but of course they hadn’t.
She dragged in a ragged breath, blinking rapidly to relieve the sting behind her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of Colton. Not in the face of his baseless accusations. Not when it would ruin her makeup.
Composing herself, she gathered her hair and draped it over one shoulder, then hissed as a new wave of pain radiated from her scalp.
“What now?” Colton’s tone made it clear he didn’t actually care.
Jif swallowed her groan as she tenderly prodded the sore spot. “Corey...” she whispered, then cut herself off. She couldn’t handle it if Colton used her pain as an excuse to lay into her again.
Instead, to her utter shock, his head whipped around, eyes widening as he inhaled a quick breath.
“Donte told the truth.”
He’d phrased it as a statement, not a question, but Jif nodded anyway before bitterly adding, “And you’ll believe him but not me.”
“Jif...”
“Whatever, Colton. I don’t expect you to fix my messes.”
As he pulled into her driveway, she gathered her clutch from the floor, not waiting for him to come around and get her door.
“Thanks for the ride.”
She didn’t quite succeed at keeping the bitter tone out of her voice, but couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. Colton would believe what he wanted about her; he always did, and arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
Storming into the kitchen, she threw the beaded bag on the island and wrenched open the refrigerator door. She’d had a few canapes before everything had gone south, but not dinner, and her stomach sloshed, either from the wine or the multiple confrontations of the evening.
She thought about texting Britt, but her friend had missed tonight’s gala for a quiet date night with Garrett.
She wouldn’t be the one to interrupt them.
Leticia would already be at work, and no one in her teacher circles really understood Jif outside the classroom.
She preferred it when her worlds didn’t collide too much.
Makes it easier, Colton’s voice echoed in her head.
“Shut up,” she screamed into the empty room. She couldn’t say it to his face, but alone, she could vent her anger, her shame, all the ugly emotions that had piled up throughout the night and now ripped free as violently as Corey’s fist in her hair.
She screamed again, no words, just a long, vocal cord-shredding screech.
Pressing a hand to her neck, now achy and ragged with every breath, she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. She chugged half of it, letting the cool liquid soothe her burning throat.
No longer hungry, she staggered up the stairs to her room.
She wanted nothing more than to pitch headfirst into her bed, but she forced herself to shimmy out of her dress and hang it carefully in the closet.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth, the habits too ingrained to ignore even on this catastrophic night, the routine almost meditative.
As she pulled the covers up to her chin, she ignored the obvious person she should call.
Miles would let her vent. He’d share something wise like how she should be honest with Colton about her feelings—her disappointment that he’d sided with his teammate without even listening to her perspective, her anger that he assumed the worst of her.
He’d reassure her that her feelings mattered, even if Colton dismissed them.
So why couldn’t she pick up her phone?
Miles always perceived her clearly, including all the ugly parts she hid from everyone else.
But would he understand this?
Colton’s words had wounded her because they held a seed of truth. She had kept Miles separate from her football friends. Not because she wanted to fool him, or have an easier time playing the field, but because she couldn’t quite visualize how he would fit in.
She cared too much to subject him to a roster full of football players, many of whom she’d dated.
She liked to think she’d do the same for any guy, but doubly so given how hard Miles had worked, how far he’d come, since his accident.
She wanted to protect him, the same way she’d wanted to save him the flight of stairs at her house, or walking around the car to open her door.
He didn’t need to face that kind of scrutiny. Not for her sake.
And, honestly, she didn’t want to answer the questions others would have. She’d spent so long cultivating her image—Friday-night fun girl, Sunday-afternoon supporter—and Miles didn’t quite fit with her persona, either.
She rolled on her side and curled around a pillow, sniffling as she mentally surveyed the wreckage of the night.
Then again, with her carefully curated facade shattered, what did it matter anymore?