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)
I glance over my shoulder and find August coming toward us. He’s not in uniform but wearing a thin gray T that clings to his chest and loose-fitting blue athletic shorts with the team logo emblazoned on one thigh. His gaze locks onto mine.
Damn, but he makes me flutter.
He doesn’t break that easy, graceful gait until he’s right before me. He stops and simply smiles. That smile goes right through my clothes and heats up my skin.
“Penelope.”
“August.”
His grin grows broad. “Penelope.”
“Back to this, are we?”
A warm chuckle escapes him. “Guess we are.”
“Shouldn’t you be in uniform?”
“It’s a while yet until game time, and once that kit goes on, it ain’t easily coming off. I’m in warm-up gear now.” A quick wink. “Were you wanting to see me in my uniform, Pen?”
“You could put your helmet on. Cover that smug smile.”
“Cutting me deep, Sweets.”
“You’ll live, Pickle.”
“Told you,” says May from the sidelines.
I’d forgotten about them. Damn it. Their presence somehow manages to thrust me right back to being a teenager, peering at August from the corners. I find myself wanting to squirm.
Jan watches with interest. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
August ignores everyone in favor of looking at me as if I’m some mirage that might soon dissipate.
Jan says something about coming back for me, but I’m too drawn in by August’s regard to fully answer. All too soon we’re alone—well, as alone as we can be standing off to the side of a busy pregame corridor.
August breaks the silence. “You came.”
“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Are you?” He sounds so quietly surprised, I snap out of my shyness.
“This is my first time attending an NFL game. And it’s you.”
That gets him. He draws in a quick breath.
“Pen.” He says it sweetly, like a sigh after a long climb. As if pulled by a string, his hand lifts, and he traces the curve of my jaw. “You’re good for me, you know that?”
“I don’t . . .” My train of thought derails. I don’t know how anyone is expected to keep their head when August Luck looks at them with that soft, happy smile.
I’m in serious danger of flinging myself right onto his body and taking a big bite. Empathy for Sarah’s earlier zombie state rises.
“It’s good to see January,” I blurt out.
He glances at the elevators where Jan and the girls had left from. “Part of me wishes he was playing instead of watching.”
“How is he taking it?”
“I don’t know, honestly.” August sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He’s been cagey about discussing it.”
“That’s understandable.”
Absently, he nods, but his focus is still on the elevator doors. “When I thought about going pro, I always assumed we’d be battling it out in a way, the two Luck quarterbacks competing for the ring.”
August’s expression flickers. “Of course I had a lot of catching up to do. But I thought he’d be there. Now . . . it’s different. It’s like I’m chasing a ghost in some ways.”
He’s chasing a legacy instead of competing with a brother.
“August,” I say in the heavy silence. Instantly, I have his attention back. Complete focus. The sensation is heady. My fingers thread through his and I hold firm. “It occurs to me that the solution to your problem isn’t me—”
“I don’t know about that.” He gives me a lopsided smile.
“Be serious for a second. I mean it. I think what you really need to do is to win.”
“Pen . . .” he huffs, amused. “Of course I need to win. I’ve been trying my best to do precisely that.”
“No, I’m not explaining it right.” I push my hair back from my face and think. “What I’m saying is that it’s you, August. You can win because that’s what you do, it’s who you are.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, but I forge on.
“Pops used to bet on basketball games.”
It’s clear he thinks I’ve lost the plot but he’s kind enough to humor me. “I didn’t know that.”
“He almost always won too. I would tease him about being psychic. He’d say it wasn’t precognition but the ability to read body language. ‘Pen,’ he’d say, ‘at the pro level, the talent pool is elite, even when you include superstars, your playing field is basically even. What truly decides the game is a soul-deep belief in the player that they’re going to win.’
“He’d tell me it wasn’t enough to think you’re going to win, you had to know it. That unfailing belief would show in the body language of the players. Other players, whether they knew it or not, would pick up on it too.”
For a moment, I think I’ve lost him, but August looks off, his brows knitting. “I remember he loved Jordan.”
“Yes,” I exclaim. “Because Jordan didn’t care who he faced or what the supposed odds were, he was going to win because that’s what he did.” I give August’s hand a tug. “That’s what you do too.”