Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Thanks for coming, Coach,” Asher adds, and the other guys say their goodbyes. With that, Coach McBride heads out into the night, leaving me to process his news. I need to call my brother soon, but selfishly I’m a little fixated on what Coach just said about me. Max and Wesley are too, since they give me their congrats before peeling away.
Asher turns to me, his eyebrows raised. “Dude.”
I manage to nod. “Yeah.” Like that means anything. Then I add, “I’ve got…nothing.”
Asher laughs. “And they call you the articulate one.”
He’s not wrong. I’m the guy they come to for advice. The veteran. The player who’s supposedly seen it all. The game’s highs and lows, the different teams, the changing styles. And…the potential scandals. My gaze drifts to Leighton on the other side of the room. She’s snapping a pic of some of the guests, then she lowers her camera. My pulse surges with one look at her. Her chestnut hair spills down her back in waves. Her black top shows off her arms and creamy skin I want to kiss, touch, explore. Her eyes spark with mischief and intelligence, and this feeling tugs in my chest—a desire that won’t go away and hasn’t since I met her. A desire to get to know her better. It’s annoyingly insistent, more so when she turns my way briefly. Her lips are glossy pink and tipped up in the hint of a smile. A knowing one—and I wonder what’s behind it. But I shouldn’t. Really, I shouldn’t wonder. Not my place to think about her, especially with this potential captaincy on the line.
I tear my focus from her, squinting at Asher through my glasses, trying to get my bearings. “What did you say?”
Asher cracks up, shaking his head. “You are so screwed, man,” he says.
“No kidding.” I scrub a hand across my jaw, trying to play it cool. But clearly failing. Asher doesn’t know everything about what happened with Leighton. In fact, he hardly knows anything. But I did tell him one night that I had it bad for her. So he knows enough.
Asher leans in, lowering his voice. “Here’s a tip for you—”
But Maeve shoots him a just-for-her-husband look that must be far more interesting than this conversation.
“Go see your wife,” I say, exonerating him from this convo.
“Catch you later,” Asher says, then joins Maeve, and follows her out onto the dance floor, leaving me to wonder what his tip about Leighton might be. And leaving me with my so-very-screwed feelings.
Watching Asher dance with Maeve, I grab another drink from the bartender, switching to water. I look back at the crowd, at my friends dancing or laughing with their partners, and I think about what it means to be captain, the work ahead, the season I want to have. And what it’ll be like to play with my brother. I tap out a text to him. Anything exciting going on?
He’ll appreciate the irony whenever he reads it, which might be tomorrow since he’s the world’s worst texter. But he might be busy with the kids, so I’ll wait to hear from him before I call.
As the night winds down, my friends start drifting away one by one, couples and groups slipping out. And still, I find myself…not leaving.
I stick around, offering to help with the favors, making sure guests have their chocolate boxes, as well as their bags and purses. I’m just doing it to help a friend. This is a big night for Asher. As I hand out boxes, Leighton snaps a few pics.
Soon, most of the guests are gone. When the happy couple takes off for the night, Leighton’s at the door, capturing the moment. Then, she waves goodbye and turns around.
Hardly anyone else is here—her, me, the catering staff, a few others.
She glances around at the mostly empty space, littered with champagne glasses, cake plates, and the remains of mini mango tacos. An Ella Fitzgerald tune plays softly overhead. I don’t know the song, but I recognize the vibe—it’s something about longing. Leighton lowers her camera, smiles, and gives a small wave.
Seems foolish not to talk to her. Tonight is proof I’ll see her around. Might as well get used to it. Really, it was one day we shared a year ago, so what’s the big deal? I shouldn’t carry it with me all the time. Resolved to put the past in the past and forge a new—friendship, perhaps—with the coach’s daughter, I head her way.
“Are you playing the role of shutterbug tonight?” I ask.
Her smile disappears. Her eyes glimmer with dirty memories. And, fuck, it’s like a jolt of electricity shooting down my spine as I remember calling her that when we were together. Shutterbug.
The shift in her expression tells me she remembers it too. How I said it. When I said it. Images of her threading her hands around my neck as she sank onto my dick have the audacity to flash in technicolor before my eyes. Heat charges through my body.