Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
"You'll trade me?"
"No, son. I'm not talking about your last season with the team. I'm saying this will be your last season in the league, period," he says, his gaze locked on mine. "Either get your shit together, or you're done."
I blink at him, rocking back on my heels.
Fuck. They're talking about cutting me loose? Because of Aldersgate?
No. I don't even have to ask to know that's not why. It's because of me and my shit. Because, like Coach said, I've got a long goddamn history of problems on and off the field. I've had problems for six damn years. And they're entirely of my own making.
I wanted her to chase her dreams instead of putting her life on hold for me. And I drove her away in the process. I broke us before we ever even had a chance. And like Aldersgate said, I'm the only one who never got over it.
"You good, man?" Tyson asks, jogging along beside me as I stomp out of the locker room an hour later.
"Fine," I growl.
He snorts, shooting me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit. But he doesn't ask questions. He just shakes his head. "One of these days, you're going to handle your shit instead of letting motherfuckers like Aldersgate use it to get at you."
"I handle my shit."
"Really? Is that why you've been in the same city as your girl all season and haven't even attempted to see her?"
I snarl a wordless warning at him, not in the mood for this shit. "Fuck off, Tyson."
"Nah, I'm a talkative motherfucker," he says cheerfully. "And I feel like talking, so you're going to listen."
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, scowling daggers at him. "You realize you're the only veteran on this team stressing about me, right? Everyone else washed their hands of me before the ink dried on my contract. But here you are, pissing me off every day anyway, thinking you're doing God's work or some shit."
"Nah, brother," he says, his hazel eyes shining as he chuckles. "I'm not doing God's work. Not even he has the patience for your crabby-ass attitude. I'm just trying to keep you from making the same mistakes half of us have already made. You're too smart to do the same shit we did."
I grunt instead of responding, cutting down a hallway leading toward the lot where we keep our cars. A janitor at the end of the hall glances in our direction, nods, and then drags his mop bucket out of the way, earbuds firmly lodged in his ears.
"Your girl is playing at the Rhinestone tonight. Go see her, man."
Tyson had me pegged about two seconds after I stepped off the plane. Guess it wasn't hard to do when I've got tattoos of her all over me. So when he asked who she was to me, I told him the truth—she was everything to me. It was the only time we've spoken about her since I don't make a habit of discussing her. In fact, I don't speak about her at all. It's better that way.
But fucking Aldersgate loves to run his mouth. I don't think there's anyone left in the league who doesn't know that I'm hung up on the biggest goddamn pop star in the country.
"She doesn't want to see me," I mutter.
"And you're still listening?" He hits me with a look that tells me to cut the bullshit. "How many more years are you going to keep making yourself miserable because you fucked up when you were a kid, man? Either nut up and go get the girl or stop letting people like Aldersgate press you about it. Because from where I'm standing, those are the only options you've got left if you still want to be standing on that field come next season."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I growl. She'd be in my arms right now if it were that easy. But I didn't just break her heart. I fucking broke her. She stopped breathing in my arms.
"Maybe I don't," Tyson agrees as we step out into the cool night air. "But maybe you don't, either. You ever think of that?"
"What does that even mean?"
"It means shit isn't always what it looks like, motherfucker," he says. "If anyone should know that, you should. Because you may act like the world's biggest asshole, but we both know you aren't that. Not even close."
Chapter Two
Nadia
"You look beautiful, Nadia," Zoya says, grinning at me in the mirror as she finishes my hair. "The crowd out there is going to love you."
"Thanks," I mutter, eyeing myself critically. My jeans are practically painted on, lifting my round ass. My shirt skims my curves, highlighting my full breasts instead of my round belly. The flowy sleeves hide the size of my arms. I don't have a problem with them. I happen to love my body, scars and all. But I learned quickly that it's easier to carefully conceal parts of it from the world than it is to listen to the whole world critique it. And in this business, everyone has an opinion.