Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
She’s it for me.
She’s my sweet dream and my dark desire. She is my lost bird and my good girl. She’s my Little Strawberry and Little Whore. She can make me touch heaven just by letting me breathe her air and she can destroy me just by taking a step away from me. She’s everything that makes me and wrecks me. And if she can make me realize all these things about myself, make me see the fucking truth of my twisted, tarnished soul, then I sure as fuck can learn to love her like she deserves.
Because I’m the only one who can. Call it arrogance or self-confidence or whatever the fuck but it’s the truth. We’re connected, aren’t we? In a soul-shattering and earth-standing-still way. In a way that I never in a million years could’ve imagined myself be connected to someone.
Of course, it took me the entire night of driving around to piece it all together when I should’ve been with her, when I should have fallen down on my knees, and licked her feet, worshipped her body and told her I loved her too.
But it’s okay. I’m going to fix it.
I have a game in an hour but once it’s over and we’ve won—and we will win because I’m not letting her down, because I promised I’d focus on the game—I’m going to win her back. I’m going to show her I’ll do anything for her. Anything at all to have a chance with her again. The right way, this time. No secrets, no sneaking around, no potentially hurting people.
I’ll find a way to make this fucking work because failure isn’t an option.
So I play the best game of my life. I play like the Wrecking Thorn they call me, not letting anyone stand in my way. No defense, no hurdles. No fake passes or side tackles. No amount of pressing or any fucking strategy will make me give up the ball. Not until I’ve scored the goal, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun playing the game. In fact, my poor performance aside, I hadn’t even realized I was losing interest in the game. I hadn’t realized soccer had become a chore, not my passion. I guess, loneliness eats away at every little joy in your life.
And I never would’ve realized that if not for her. She’s what completes me, completes this. My life, my goals, all my dreams. So as soon as the game’s done and we’ve won; 5-0, I take off across the field. I don’t wait around for victory laps or congratulatory hugs. I don’t give a fuck if they thought I played well because I know I did. I played for her. I have to go find her, apologize, explain, tell her all the things she’s always wanted me to say.
But then of course, the media rushes in and the fucking crowd thickens, swarming like a bunch of flies. I’m navigating my way through them, through the questions, the cameras, the fucking mic thrust your way as if you’re supposed to just lean over it and confess your deep dark desires to them so they can make a quick fucking buck.
Still though, I’m polite. I don’t push or shove. I simply say ‘no comment’ as I notice Ledger, Riot and the rest of the boys picking up my slack and answering questions on my behalf. I’m all the way on the other side when I hear something that halts me in my tracks.
“Do you have comments on the leaked video of you with your stepsister?”
The question is thrown at me from the side so I don’t know who posed it. But it freezes me to the core. It fucking makes my heart slam in my chest. Slowly, I turn around and there’s a weasely looking guy with black-rimmed glasses who appears ecstatic at having caught my attention. He pushes his mic in front of my face but before he can say anything, I grab his collar and growl, “What the fuck did you say to me?”
His eyes bug out in fear, and he scrambles to explain, “The v-video that leaked this m-morning. Of you and your stepsister at a party. In a m-maze. The video is grainy but the color of her hair—”
I punch him in the face to shut him up because no one is going to talk about her hair. No one is going to fucking talk about her. He crashes into another reporter talking to Ledger and screams erupt around us. These ones of fear because I’m charging toward that fuckface again, ready to lay another one into him. But someone stops me from behind or rather a few people—I sense three or even four—and pull me back as I shout, “Don’t you fucking talk about her, you understand? No one fucking talks about her. Not her.”