Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“She’s mine now,” Gray says. “Deal with it.”
I laugh. “Keep talking shit. I still have my Taser, you know.”
“You and that fucking Taser.” He chuckles.
“I gotta go,” Astrid says, giggling. “Keep me posted on the Drake situation, Gianna. Love you, Audrey. Call me anytime.”
We say our goodbyes before she disappears from Audrey’s phone screen.
The house grows quiet. Audrey leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. I want to be pissed at Dipshit—I am pissed at Dipshit—but I doubt he knows that he broke Audrey’s heart. I hope not, anyway. Because I can’t imagine anyone hurting this girl, destroying her self-esteem, and being okay with it.
And I really don’t want to go to prison.
I consider turning on my phone but decide against it. Even though I’m dying to know if Drake has texted me, I want to wrap my head around this situation before I respond.
“Date me for six weeks. We can document it here for your fans. It’ll help your ratings if nothing else. You can think of it as an experiment to make you a better podcaster.”
“You want to fake date me to get our ratings up?”
“No. I want to date you for real to prove that your one-size-fits-all approach to relationships doesn’t work.”
A coy smile spreads across my face. If he’s being honest and really wants to do this, I can have some fun with it. With him.
Heat spreads through my belly and into my core as I think of what this experiment might entail. I’ve always told myself that Drake was best kept in my dreams, but that was to protect the sanctity of the workplace. If it’s to benefit the workplace …
It’s not like I’m actually going to fall in love with him.
So, what could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Drake
“Heads up!”
I spin around just in time to catch a basketball aimed straight for my head.
“Sorry about that.” A guy on the other end of the court holds his hands out for me to pass the ball back to him. We’ve exchanged pleasantries in passing a few times. He’s always seemed like a decent guy, but the ball to the head makes me reconsider that assessment. “I completely missed that pass.”
I fire a bounce pass his way and then turn back to Jory.
Jory Plath, a winger with the Tennessee Royals rugby team, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. We met two years ago when I moved into this building and quickly bonded over sports and a shared love of pizza. When he called me on my way home from the office and asked if I wanted to shoot around for a while in our building’s gymnasium, I was all too happy to take him up on his offer.
After the day that I’ve had, I need an outlet to release some of this energy that’s still buzzing beneath my skin, or I’m going to go crazy. It’s also nice to think about something else for a minute. Distance sometimes provides clarity.
“I just don’t know if I want to do it anymore, man,” Jory says, banking a shot off the backboard. “A part of me thinks I’d miss rugby like crazy if I retire. But then I think about not hurting every fucking day, settling down in one place, maybe getting a dog, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”
“A dog?” I chuckle. “That feels so random.”
“You know what I mean, asshole.” He tosses me the ball. “How’d you know when it was time to retire?”
I step to the three-point line and launch a perfectly arched shot over the rim. The net swishes as the ball slides through.
This question comes up surprisingly often, especially in conversations with other athletes. It’s hard for us to walk away from a game that we’ve been playing since we were children. It’s the only reality we know. It’s often the only thing we’re good at. But my retirement story is complicated and includes discovering Dad’s rapid mental decline. That played a huge factor in my decision, but that’s not a topic I want to discuss.
“How’d I know?” I ask. “Well, I took a look at my bank account and then took a call from my mom.” Which isn’t a total lie.
He laughs, nodding as he rebounds my shot. “Been there, done that—in that order.”
“We won three championships in five years, and I didn’t feel like I had anything left to prove.” Which isn’t a lie either. “I had to commit to another three to five years with the team, with at least two of them being rebuilding seasons, or go home. And honestly, I played for eight years without major injuries. It felt like tempting fate if I stayed.”
“It was that simple, huh?”
“Hell no. There wasn’t anything simple about it. But I knew in my gut it was the right thing to do, and I always follow my gut.”