Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“You could try. But you’d be limping back home.”
“That’s the fighting spirit. Even if it is deluded.” He threads his hands behind his head and settles in. “I’m working on my tan.”
His face, arms, and calves are ruddy brown. The rest of him, where his uniform usually covers, is pale ivory. I don’t fault him for trying to even out; I’d just as rather not have to witness the process.
“Would have gone in the buff,” he adds, with a rolling drawl, “but I didn’t want to rub sunscreen on my junk. That’s my girl’s job, and she wouldn’t come over with me. Said I was invading your privacy.”
“Smart girl.”
“Isn’t she just? And it ain’t a bikini. It’s a . . .” He frowns before his expression clears. “Mankini.”
I grab his drink and take a gulp. “The leopard print is a nice touch, really.”
“Monica says leopard print is in now. She knows these things.”
“I guess we’ll take Monica’s word on that.”
With a grunt, Jelly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the seat. He’s a good six foot six and his long legs fold up toward his chest before he parts his thighs. I avert my eyes. Honestly, nightmares about this for months are in my future.
“Tell you the truth, son—” (he’s only four years older than me) “—I’m here to discuss your poultry party proclivities.”
“Nice alliteration.”
“You want to throw SAT words at each other all day or are you gonna explain why you danced on a table like an inebriated chicken?”
Grimacing, I attempt to take another drink of lemonade. He snatches the glass and raises his brow in warning before sipping through the straw. Jelly’s my first true friend on the team, and despite his unfortunate attire, he’s a straight shooter who works hard and doesn’t fuck around. His disappointment in me stings.
“Won’t happen again.” I hold his gaze before looking out at the pool. Its opaline blue surface ripples faintly in the breeze.
“No it won’t. We don’t have time for fuckups. We got the tools, and we got the talent. I want a ring on this, son.” He holds up his massive hand. It’s hard and scarred, and ring-free at the moment. “And I ain’t talking about getting one from my girl neither.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “Fuck’s sake, Jelly. I’m a rookie. And you want a ring this year?”
He simply looks at me with those steady, squinty eyes the color of new football leather. “You can do it.”
My insides twist tight. God, I want to dive in the pool, sink down in its cool quiet waters, and rest on the bottom.
“You can,” he says again.
Of course Jelly expects a ring. He should. It’s what the team paid top dollar for. A superstar. The QB who could become a legend. Thing with being a legend is that it isn’t easy or common; if it were, we wouldn’t revere them. My team can be the best in the world but if it isn’t in me to shine, then nothing will change that.
It’s a struggle to breathe, but I suck in a deep breath and look back at him. His broad face is placid now. He knows the struggle too. We all do.
“I won’t fuck up again, Jells.” My hand spreads wide over my thigh. “I don’t know if I can lead us there, but I’ll try my hardest.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
I wish that were true.
Ten
Pen
Monday morning starts with bossa nova. Astrud Gilberto’s “Summer Samba” to be precise. Her honey-cream voice combined with the up-tempo Moog synthesizer makes me think of pretty ladies with lacquered beehive hair and A-line silk brocade dresses socializing at a cocktail party, swinging elaborately long cigarette holders while making their point and sloshing pink ladies onto the toes of their pointy kitten heels.
Snuggling down in my bed, I smile at the image. I’d like to have a cocktail party one day, hand out colorful little hors d’oeuvres that look like art but taste even better. I’d put on a flirty dress and laugh with friends while sipping martinis out of etched glasses. In theory, I’d like that very much. In practice? I don’t have enough friends to fill a room, and I’d probably hide in the corner or play waitress in an effort to avoid talking to anyone.
How . . . unsatisfactory. I turn to my side and pull the covers up high. August wants me to play at being his fiancée. I’d have to socialize on a public stage. I’d have to make conversation, to laugh and smile, and be . . . something that I’m not. He doesn’t understand that because, for a brief but brilliant time with him, I’d been someone different. I’d been open in a way I never am. He fails to remember clearly how quiet and withdrawn I usually am.