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)
Our coaching staff are hovering along the edges of the mayhem, snickering into their hands. Jay, my offensive coordinator, has a row of pink pearls draped over his thick neck.
I glance at Coach and arch my brow. “What, no crown for you?”
“Nah, son, that’s for you.” He looks downright evil as he holds out an oversize gold crown with fake jewels on the ends that looks like he raided from a Burger King.
“Oh, hell no.”
Jelly jogs over, a glass of champagne in his hand. “Damn, Rook, why didn’t you tell me you were getting hitched?”
“Because I don’t live in the 1890s?”
He slaps my shoulder fondly and thrusts the glass into my hand. “If I had known, I’d have given you some tips. Monica says—”
“Monica says,” everyone intones at once.
He doesn’t even look back as he flips them the bird. “As I was saying—”
“Jells,” I interrupt. “You getting married too?”
He blanches. “Hell no. Marriage terrifies me.”
“Then you can’t give me advice. Neither,” I say over him, “can Monica, as I know she’s never been.”
“Spoilsport.”
In truth, my pulse has kicked up in a powerful rhythm of sheer guilt. I’m lying to my guys. But someone might talk, and I can’t risk it. Still sucks balls. They did this for me, albeit to torture me as much as to celebrate.
Inadvertently, I catch Coach’s eye. I don’t know what he sees in mine, but he lifts his glass.
“To the groom-to-be and his lovely fiancée.”
Everyone cheers.
My insides clench, but I raise my glass as well and do a silent salute to Pen for sticking with me.
One corner of Coach’s lips curls and he raises his glass higher. “May this chicken be the last one you dance with.”
At that, Rhodes tosses me my feathered bride. I catch it with one arm while the guys cackle and “Rocket Man” starts playing on the speakers. Jelly produces a purple fur coat from somewhere and drapes it over my shoulders. Up until now, they haven’t fully razzed me about the incident, and I suppose I’m due.
So I laugh. Because it is funny. It’s also expected of me. I can’t let them see the panic stirring in my chest. I didn’t fully consider this end of my arrangement with Pen. March is completely right on one account: When it comes to Penelope, I stop thinking clearly. My focus has become her—being with her, getting to know these new facets of her personality. She makes me forget my worries and responsibilities.
Even now, when I’m shepherded to a seat and plied with pink cupcakes—honestly who did this??—and treated with slaps on the shoulders, and good-natured jokes, some part of me is still thinking about Pen. I’ll tell her about this, show her the selfies I’m taking with my crew—ridiculous crown tilted on my head—just to watch her smile, hear her laugh. I want that. I want that as much as I want to win the title.
Even as we take off, the force of it pushing me back in my seat, soaring up and heading home, part of me is already on the ground in LA. With her.
Logic tells me that should be concerning. But the only thing floating around in my head is: I can’t wait.
I can’t fucking wait.
Pen
Expect the unexpected. Isn’t that what they say? The phrase never made much sense to me, since how are we supposed to suspect something that never enters our minds? Or maybe it’s that we should always be on the lookout for surprises?
Either way, I should have expected attention after August’s postgame presser. He warned me my life would change. Tempting fate, I shooed that concern away as though it were a fantasy, something that would happen to other girls. Certainly not me.
Fate must be having a good laugh right about now.
It takes me a bit to notice. Ordinarily a walk across the quad on my way to class soothes me. The Romanesque architecture of UCLA’s four original buildings are all a little different in style but share a similar fairy-tale beauty, with their soft pinkish bricks, mullioned windows, Moorish and Gothic touches. I could be anywhere—a merchant’s stronghold in Milan, an ancient library in Spain, a basilica in Florence. It stirs my imagination every time.
It does today too. Only, while I’m strolling along, mentally prepping for my first day of class, others are turning their heads and watching me pass. At first, I only notice on the edges of my consciousness, little prickles of warning that something isn’t right. It takes accidental eye contact with a guy lifting his phone in my direction to take a picture for me to truly feel the change.
The first thought: What am I doing that warrants a photo?
Surreptitiously, I glance down at myself, the horror that I might have forgotten to put on pants making my heart thud. But, the pants are on—soft drapey gray trousers paired with a burgundy knit sweater T because I like to dress professionally for class. Maybe that’s it? I’m too dressed? But no, I always dress like this. Why take a snapshot now? I can’t check my face, but I desperately want to.