Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Wow.”
She stalks back over to her desk, but not before muttering that I’m a prick under her breath.
I call after her. “Detention, Emo.”
I cannot believe he gave me detention. Detention! I’ve barely been at this school a day and I’m already in trouble. Which seems to follow me around like a lost little puppy. I can’t seem to tell it no, I just feed and nurture it. Hell, I even named it. This particular trouble’s name is Asshole.
Dad is going to be so pissed.
I’m already in so much hot water with him. Sure, I’m eighteen now, but Dad always reminds me that as long as I’m under his roof, I have to follow his rules. Chicago nearly broke our family apart and it was all my fault. Quickly, I snuff out those thoughts because I’ll get upset all over again. My thoughts drift back to detention. I’m confused about how I’m going to try out for the track team if I have to spend an hour after school with my ass stuck in a chair.
Way to nail your first day, River.
The rest of my classes are easy and I even have that funny kid, Caleb, in a few of them. I hadn’t expected to make a friend the first day but he didn’t seem put off by my bad attitude. Unlike Coach Long. Everett.
As I walk back to his class where detention is being held after the last bell rings, I try not to think about how attractive he is. This morning, I’d been shocked speechless when Mr. Polk introduced me to the brooding track and field coach. He was tall, well over six feet, and beautiful. I’d been drawn in to his handsome features almost immediately. His dark hair was messy and he was sporting a close-shaved beard. He’d flared his nostrils as if he was angry about something before I ruined his day further and his dark brown eyes flickered with barely controlled rage. And yet, despite the fury storming inside of him, he’d stood there with his sculpted arms crossed over his chest, acting the part of responsible adult.
But then the asshole opened his sexy mouth and made fun of my name. Dissed my style. Called me a stripper.
I’m pissed by the time I reach his classroom. When I walk in, he’s grading those stupid pre-tests he made us take earlier. He’s not frowning though. His handsome face is impassive as he scribbles corrections on a sheet. I stare at his jaw a little too long. Strong. Chiseled.
Why does he have to be so good-looking?
“Take a seat, Emo.”
I bristle and lift my gaze to find him staring at me. His lip is slightly curled up in disdain which makes me want to flip him off. But something tells me he won’t take that well. Instead, I ignore his stupid nickname and stomp through the classroom. His eyes never leave mine. When I reach him, I drop my bag to the floor and sit in the chair backwards so I can face him. He crosses his arms over his muscular chest and we have a stare down.
“What’s your deal, Coach?” I ask with a frown. “You’ve had it out for me since the moment you saw me.”
His features soften just a bit. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a bully.”
Shock morphs his features and his mouth opens. “What?”
“You made fun of me in front of all those kids,” I accuse, hurt lacing my voice. I dealt with enough of this shit at my old school. Especially after word got out of what I did. “You called me a stripper.”
He chuckles darkly and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make my core throb. “I did not call you a stripper.” His eyes flicker to my chest and he nods. “But that, right there, is unacceptable and you know it.”
“I don’t like bras,” I argue.
“And I don’t like seeing little girl tits while I’m trying to do my damn job,” he snaps.
We both stare at each other for a brief second before horror washes over his features.
“Fu—” He stops mid-word, then scrubs at his scruffy beard in frustration. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
I smirk. “They’re not that little.”
He cracks a small smile. “We’re not talking about the size of them.”
“As long as we don’t discuss the size, we can speak of them?” I challenge with a grin. “Like the color of my nip—”
“Emo,” he warns, that chiseled jaw clenching.
“Fine,” I huff. “But can we just end detention already so I can show you I’m good enough for the team?”
His angry exterior seems to fade some. “You’re not wearing that.”
“So I’ve been told.”
We walk outside side by side. The football players are practicing on the field but we have the track to ourselves. I’m surprised when Coach sits and starts stretching. I try not to provoke him and follow his lead, keeping things simple. The last thing I need is to have every football player on the team knowing about my flexibility. I don’t need a fan club.