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)
And…
I’d gotten closer to Gray.
He would deny it, over and over again.
But all week, he’d been texting me, at least once a day.
On Monday?
Gray: By the way, that’s never happening again.
But by the end of Tuesday night:
Or if it does, it’s going to be in your room, not mine.
I smiled like an idiot when I got that one, because it was only more proof that he’d liked fucking me just as much as I’d liked getting fucked.
With each passing day, we started texting more, sometimes about simple things like my history class, other times about sex.
This morning, he’d sent me a picture of himself at the library, and on the desk in front of him, I saw a big research computer screen. When I looked closer, I saw that he was looking at some sort of newspaper article archive.
Andrew: The hell is all that?
Gray: All of that is you.
The fuck?
Pretty easy to look up every newspaper article that’s ever mentioned you or the Tempests team. Not just the school paper. Local Bestens ones, too, and ones from your previous college, before you transferred.
Still that obsessed with me, huh?
Or just doing my job.
Clearly both. See anything you like?
I like the Halloween picture of you from your freshman year at the last school.
What.
The actual.
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure if it was just standard practice for Gray to look up every little shred of information on someone he was writing about, or if he was just picking on me to piss me off.
Either way, I wasn’t going to let him get to me.
He was under my skin, but he didn’t have to know that. He’d fucked me, after all. All I had to do now was make him like me.
No chance you found that.
Yep. I like you in a tutu. Wear one for me sometime?
My chest had gone molten at the memory of that Halloween. There was certainly photographic evidence of me in a light pink ballerina tutu, red lipstick on my lips thanks to some of the sorority girls who had decided to “doll me up,” and a little sparkly tiara on my head.
Is this what you’re like when you’re dating someone?
We’re not dating, football prince.
No shit. Someone would have to be out of their mind to date you.
I’d sent that text as a lighthearted joke.
But he hadn’t responded.
That was the last time he texted me, yesterday morning.
I didn’t know if I’d offended him or what, but judging by the way he was sitting on the edge of the field all night now, I didn’t think I had the ability to affect him at all.
For the whole game, he’d just been sitting there, kicked back, occasionally taking notes about God knows what.
He looked so fucking good.
A dark green plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, a black knit sweater on, and his usual dark denim jeans.
“You’re staring at the poor guy so much,” Luke said as he came back over toward me, giving me a sly grin. “He’s going to think you’re trying to catch him like a football.”
“Pretty sure Gray is the one who keeps staring at me.”
“Well, that’s kind of his job, though,” Luke said before dropping his voice. “Think he’s going to find out about Coach’s affair and make the whole article about that?”
Damn.
I hadn’t even considered Coach’s affair. Hadn’t even thought about it in weeks.
It definitely would be something Gray might latch onto.
“Christ, Luke. Don’t say that out on the field.”
“Swear to God, Peachel, Coach smells like that same super flowery perfume every time he says his wife’s traveling.”
I grabbed my bottle and swigged a fat gulp of water. I could hear the crowd already starting to cheer again, knowing we were about to come back out and finish the game.
“Don’t give a fuck about his personal life,” I told Luke.
Luke raised an eyebrow. “Still. If you want to make sure the article is about him and not us, that’s a very easy story to spin. We could give it to Gilman on a platter.”
I furrowed my brow. “I’m not doing anything like that.”
Luke looked down at the ground, kicking at the grass with the toe of his cleats. He glanced back up at me, and I was surprised to see guilt on his face.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just wanted to help you. You seemed pretty worried about the article.”
I gave Luke a pat on the back. “We don’t need to throw anybody else under the bus, okay?”
Luke gave me a nod. “Got it.”
“Back out there!” Coach bellowed over toward us, waving us back out onto the field.
A tiny sliver of guilt pooled in my chest as I ran back out. As the crowd went wild in the stands, I couldn’t stop looking over at Coach.
I knew it was true.
Everyone knew it was true.
Coach Ennick had definitely been cheating on his wife, having an affair with a woman who literally looked like a 25-year-old Marilyn Monroe. She showed up after games sometimes, but only when Coach’s wife, Debbie, was out of town. We turned the other way, nobody ever daring to comment on it.