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)
On any given play, we can fuck up, including me. The trick is to mitigate those errors. First by playing without fear, hesitation, or flaw. And if I do fuck up? Pull it back together, and show my team that it’s all good, we still got this. My job is part actor faking out the defense, part director leading my guys downfield, and part performer getting that ball into the right hands by brilliant handoffs or perfectly timed and aimed throws.
We’re in a sweet spot now, a smoothly running machine. It’s a heady sensation. A drug-free high. Defense picks up on it as well, shutting down teams and dominating with vigor. We’re now the ones to beat. Which means everyone is gunning for us.
Though I’m well protected, when I do get hit, I fucking feel it. God, do I feel it.
My body thrums like one big bruise as I gingerly get onto my hotel bed and rest against the pillows. I’ve done my postgame ice soak, been stretched and rubbed down by my excellent PT. And I’ve been fed, a nice dinner of chicken, rice, and veggies. Everything a growing QB needs.
I miss Penelope’s food. She claims she’s no chef, but whatever she makes me is delicious. Maybe because it’s her cooking.
I miss seeing her eyes light up when I get her to smile. It feels like a gift every time. I collect mental snapshots of her smiles, hoarding them like a dragon would gold coins.
Alone in my darkened hotel room with The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug playing quietly in the background, I feel something I haven’t in years—lonely.
I’ve tried to put a bit of distance from Pen when we weren’t making a public appearance. I can’t go on interacting with her as I have with this agreement hanging between us as it is. It isn’t fair to either of us. Maintaining distance, however, has proven more difficult than expected.
“Fuck it.” I pull up Pen’s number.
She answers on the third ring. “You won!”
Pleasure and pride mix in a cocktail of warmth, and I smile. “You saw that?”
“I did. Monica and I watched it at her house. She has a theater room. An actual one with a concession stand.”
“I have one of those too,” I tell her, adjusting to ease an ache in my lower back. “When I get home, you should come over and we’ll watch one of your old Hollywood flicks. Casablanca, Notorious, or something.”
“Those are both Ingrid Bergman movies,” Pen points out, clearly pleased I even know of them. Of course I do. She loves classic movies. So I watch them when I can.
“She’s hot.”
In truth, however, I empathize with the heroes who had to sit back and stoically watch the women they love drift farther and farther out of their reach while they pretend it isn’t destroying their soul.
Clearing my throat, I pull a light tone. “So you’re hanging out with Monica?”
The girls have gone back home, and from what I can tell Pen doesn’t have any other friends here.
“She’s great. I don’t know what I expected at first, but she’s fun and just . . . normal.”
Having met my fair share of famous people at this point, they usually fall into two categories: assholes or awesome. I’m happy that Monica is the latter, both for my teammate Jelly and for my girl.
Though she might not see it that way, Pen is my girl. I can’t think of her any other way.
“I’m glad you two clicked,” I tell her. Pen has always been a bit of a loner, but before college, she had my sisters. I don’t like the thought of her all alone.
She hesitates, and I can feel a push of tension through the line. But before I can ask why, she’s talking again. “It looks like you’re clicking with your team as well.”
I don’t think that’s what she was initially going to say, but her pleased tone distracts me. “That I am.”
“You took a few hard hits.”
I rub a hand along my flat belly. There’s a bruise blooming along the side. Ugly fucker. But what can you do? “I got up. That’s always a plus.”
“Yes,” she agrees dryly. “There’s that.” She pauses, then says with clear hesitation, “It’s hard to watch, sometimes.”
“It probably looks worse than it feels.” Probably. “I’m well padded.”
“That one guy who slammed into you after the play? I wanted to punch his dick.”
A shocked laugh bursts free, and though my body does not approve of the sudden jostle, my mood lifts. The fuck-face defensive tackle’s late hit was most definitely personal. He didn’t like our winning streak very much. I made sure to point out the scoreboard to him with a one finger salute at the end of the game. Fucko.
“I would have loved to see that,” I tell Pen, still grinning.