Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“Very good,” he said in a low voice as he stuffed his cock back into his jeans, struggling to arrange it as he zipped back up again.
“Fuck you.”
“Again, feel free to lie to me and say you didn’t like it. I’ll know better.”
I gave him a cold glare. “I liked it. I loved it. And you did, too, but you won’t fuck me because honestly, I think you’re scared.”
He puffed out a laugh, and his smile was enough to make me throb again. “I feel a lot of things about you, but I can’t say scared is one of them.”
“You’re fucking scared,” I tossed back. “Scared you’ll like it. Scared I’m not just a dumb jock you can screw around with as you invade my life, writing an article on me. Scared you’ll have to admit I’m a real person, and that you could maybe even enjoy being around me.”
“Well, you definitely are fun to fuck with.”
“Is this all a big revenge plot because a football player dared to ask you about where your parents were in freshman year?”
His brow furrowed.
He gave me a hard look.
Finally.
I’d caught him off guard, for once.
“What exactly are you talking about, Andrew?”
“Carter. Freshman year. Parents Weekend, when you apparently got blasted off your ass on whiskey and told the boys a little too much about your upbringing. You saw someone get shot, Gilman? You need therapy, not a vendetta.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you should stop.”
“No. You should tell me what the fuck your deal is. You can’t hate us just because you’ve been through bad things.”
“I went through more in each year of my childhood than most people go through in their entire lives,” he snapped back. “I’ve been to more therapists and court-mandated counselors than you could imagine. I have no problem with football players, but I do have a problem with you.”
“What problem is that?”
“You’re obsessed with your own perfect little story. Obsessed with going pro. You want to be America’s next household name. And right now, you want to give me your ass so that I’ll be on your good side, because you think you can charm anyone. Andrew, I am going to write whatever I please in my article, and it doesn’t matter if I dick you down every single night until Homecoming, nothing is going to change that.”
I was so angry I wanted to punch the stone wall beside me.
Like hell I did anything just to “be a household name.”
I really did want to do good. To succeed.
Because if I don’t succeed, what the fuck am I, anyway?
A nobody from a small town?
Someone who cannot function in life unless he’s on a football field?
My heart lodged somewhere in my chest.
I didn’t spit back Gray’s fire.
Instead I just looked up at the night sky. The moon, disappearing behind a puffy cloud then coming back out again, shining down on us.
The slightest chill in the air, signaling fall coming soon.
How this year was supposed to be my year.
Maybe it was my little story. Star football player. On my way to going pro. Everyone’s favorite.
“Fine,” I finally said to him. “I am obsessed with controlling the public opinion of me. But what else do I have, Gilman?”
“Family wealth. Privilege. Extremely good looks. Strength. The list goes on.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been doing so poorly in my classes I’ve been at risk of failing out for the last three semesters. I was probably only able to transfer into TNU because my parents made a donation and because for some reason, I’m good at tracking and catching one thing, and that’s a football flying through the air. Every guy I’ve dated in the last few years ends up leaving me because I’m a mess. I forget birthdays. I forget dates. I remember a football game, but not how a guy takes his coffee.”
“Remember when you told me I needed therapy?” Gray said.
But now, his voice wasn’t unkind.
I quit looking at the moon and glanced back down at him. “I know I need it, too. I don’t think I can really ignore the fact that I probably have ADHD, and I probably need to give a fuck about it, finally.”
He had still dropped his cocky attitude, just for a moment. “You absolutely can get help with that, Andrew.”
“But being good at football got me so far, for so long. And… yes. My parents love me. Probably too much.”
He hummed. “What’s that like?”
“It’s usually great. They support me in everything. They tie for being my number one fans. But to be honest, they never pushed me to do a goddamn thing. They didn’t ever say a word when I started to get Cs and Ds in middle school, as long as I still had a smile on my face. They never helped me to improve my grades. Never even tried to pay for a tutor. And I definitely wasn’t ever expected to help with chores or cooking… as you saw inside, I’m a mess when it comes to real life things.”