Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 124451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
He’s been just as frustrated as I’ve been, having to sit out every day, watching his teammates get to take advantage of the field while he’s forced to sit on the sidelines, but healing from a stab wound isn’t supposed to be easy. Hell, Addie hasn’t been cleared to dance yet, and I’m sure if Bri had been involved in sports, she’d still be waiting for the stamp of approval too. The three of them are lucky to be allowed out of the house to attend school every day. I’m sure if their doctors knew they were going out partying and fucking around, they’d have something to say about it. So for now, I bite my tongue while trying to put myself in his shoes, but every day it gets harder to have sympathy for the fucker.
I tear my helmet off and drop it to the grass before dragging my hands down my face. My game has been off all fucking week, ever since the cops showed up at my place to let me know I’d murdered a man. Despite how the fucker deserved it, the knowledge that I’ve taken a life has darkened something inside me, taken away the light from within and left me haunted.
I killed him with my bare fucking hands and they haven’t stopped shaking in three fucking days.
Logan stands downfield, staring back at me with the same disgusted stare as his brother, and if Jax hadn’t already said something, Logan would be spouting the same shit. He starts jogging back, knowing damn well Coach Wyld is about to ask us to do it again.
Riley strides past, scooping my helmet off the ground and shoving it into my chest. “Head in the fucking game, bro,” he says, meeting my eyes with a pointed stare before glancing toward Coach who’s shaking his head, looking stressed. “Just pull it together for ten more minutes so we can get out of here before the sun goes down.”
My cheeks blow out as I exhale loudly, but I nod, pulling my helmet back over my head and watching as Logan scoops the ball up off the ground. He launches it to me and I catch it with ease. “Run it again,” I tell him before Coach has a brain aneurysm from having to scream at me again.
“Yeah,” Riley cheers, clapping and trying to pump me up while darting out of the way, giving me the space I need to hopefully not fuck this up again.
Logan nods, and I jog back a few steps, giving myself a slight run-up, and I can’t help but glance toward Coach, seeking out his approval despite knowing I don’t need it. I don’t need anyone’s approval, but for some reason, what Coach Wyld thinks of me matters.
He doesn’t look happy, and after talking to him earlier in the week and explaining what happened with the cops over the weekend, he’s been taking it easy on me, but that’s not what I need. I don’t want his pity. I want him to push me, to treat me just like he usually does, to give me some kind of normalcy when out on the field. Fuck knows everything else has been a mess lately.
Rearing back, I give it my all, and as the ball flies down the field, Logan takes off at a sprint. He keeps his eye on the ball, pushing himself harder as Riley goes in for the tackle, doing his best to push Logan harder.
Logan evades him with ease before effortlessly catching the ball and making a point of laughing at Riley as he crash-tackles right into the ground, leaving grass stains up his arms and legs. Hell, I can hear his muttered swearing all the way down the opposite end of the field. Riley should have known better. Logan is a fucking rocket on the field. Once he gets into a sprint, no one can catch him.
It wasn’t a great throw, but just as I’d hoped, Logan has a way of making me look good, at least good enough that Coach Wyld lets us off the hook. Though I don’t doubt he’ll ask to speak with me at some point between now and the end of the week, making sure my head is screwed on right so I don’t nearly cost us another game.
“Alright, wrap it up, boys,” Coach says, indicating the field full of training equipment before fixing a pointed stare on me, the weight of his concern and pity slamming into me like a fucking freight train. “Morgan. I want to see you in my office first thing in the morning.”
Shit.
I nod, knowing damn well there’s no way out of this one. If I don’t attend his bullshit checkup, I won’t play, and I simply can’t get down with that.
Jax jogs out onto the field, going for the training equipment, sliding through on a technicality as packing up the field isn’t technically a part of our training. He passes by me, making sure to whack me right in the guts. “Poor form, man.”