Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

Candace leans back on her heels. Everything about her is small and petite. It’s probably absurd, but her size always made me feel a need to protect her, and in turn, she made that need seem like a reality by constantly getting into questionable situations. She swallows, her gaze shifting between mine. “I’ve been thinking, maybe we should try going to counseling? I mean, we’ve been together for three years. We don’t want to throw all of this away, do we? No one is ever going to know you like I do. And after all that we’ve been through, my dad, your parents, your sister… We share so much.”

Her words prod at the grave I’ve been working tirelessly to dig. One big enough to fit our entire relationship. “We tried going to counseling,” I remind her.

She shakes her head, her perfume dancing around me like a cloud. It brings forth a hundred memories, half of them good and the other half bitter. “No, we didn’t.”

I nod. “We did. You just never showed up.” I study her, waiting for guilt to flood her features, but like always, it never comes. That’s the thing about Candace that is both alluring and incredibly detrimental: she doesn’t care. About anyone, except for herself.

“Let’s try again.”

“Candace, I can’t do this. We’ve broken up a hundred times in three years, and we just need to be done.”

She pulls her head back; eyes narrowed with anger. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’ve been serious,” I tell her. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I don’t want to make up and then break up again in two weeks.”

“Then let’s not. Let’s get married.”

Her words hit me like a sack on the field, knocking the air out of me. I chuckle because words refuse to form in response to that fucking insane idea.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

Her fists swing to her hips. “I can’t believe I wasted three years of my life with you.”

This was the side of her I’d been expecting from the get-go—the angry, belligerent, accusatory one that often sparks my own defenses and leads to a war of words and allegations.

“Do you know how many guys would kill to be in your shoes? How many guys have begged me to leave you for them?”

“Yes, because you’ve thrown every one of them in my face.”

“Forget you. I can’t believe I cared enough to worry about you. In five years, you’re going to be a washed-up, has-been alcoholic, and I’m going to be thanking my lucky fucking stars that I was smart enough to dump your ass.”

I don’t mention that I broke up with her this time because I caught her making out with some asshole in the back of a club. The details seem as irrelevant and useless as putting a Band-aid over a bullet wound. “Are you done?” I ask.

Anger burns in her irises, and before I can register her intent, her palm smacks flat against my cheek, leaving a burn that I have no doubt I’ll be feeling each time I think about her. “I hate you! You’re dead to me,” she yells as she walks back to her car.

Movement catches my attention as I start to turn toward the house. Coach Baker is leaning against the back of his car, which is mostly hidden from view because he parked on the street behind me.

Shit.

Of all the times for him to randomly show up.

Candace shrieks and throws something at the yard before she slams her door shut.

Coach Baker moves as Candace pulls out of the driveway with too much speed, causing her wheels to skid. She lays on her horn before she floors the engine and disappears down the road.

Coach Baker walks toward the house holding a weighted plastic bag. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

I run a hand over my hair, knowing this likely looked worse than I’d prepared for it to be, but it was short and relatively untheatrical for Candace and her customary temper.

 He shakes his head. “I keep hoping you’re going to wake up and be that star player you were last year. The one who I could depend on and know you were going to lead our team to victory. But every time I look up, you’re fucking up. This shit can’t keep happening, Lawson. Screaming matches in the driveway are the kind of shit that gets you passed over by pro teams. They don’t want that drama.”

“I know, Coach.”

“Then why in the hell are you forcing me to have to tell you this? Again.”

“I know it looked bad,” I tell him. “But it’s not what it looked like.”

“It looked like your girlfriend trying to audition for Jerry Springer.”

I shake my head. “We broke up.”

“I caught that. I’m pretty sure all of Seattle did.” Disappointment rounds his shoulders. “You’re a damn good player. Sometimes, I just want to shake you and make you realize what you’re throwing away.” He rubs his fingers across his forehead. “I can’t have you bringing your drama into the locker room or out onto the field. This can’t continue. I’ve been hearing rumors about your girlfriend for years, and we could bear them then, but not now. Not with you being caught on camera getting wasted and high. This is it—"

“Coach, I haven’t had a drink since that picture came out. I haven’t even been to a party except for the Halloween party that the team and my sister threw—a dry party if you can imagine.”

Coach Baker stares at me, indecision pursing his lips. “I know you’re trying. I’m just not sure it’s enough.”

The front door opens, and Poppy peeks out. She looks between Coach Baker and me. I can’t tell if she recognizes him. “Sorry to interrupt. I just want to remind you that my parents are expecting us soon.” She flashes a smile, filling me with silent assurance—she knows exactly what she’s doing. Everything about Poppy is warm, and safe, and wholesome. She is the epitome of the girl