Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
I reach for the paperwork, pulling it close to read over the terms, and I maintain my best poker face as I re-read the numbers.
Four years.
Thirty-five million plus incentives.
Jerry chuckles. “Just so you know, I had to pull a few strings. It’s a little more than they were wanting to give you, but Jackson here tells me you’ve been holding out for something more along these lines.”
I’ve received eight other offers since last fall, none of them half as impressive as this.
“Congratulations, Talon,” Coach says, beaming. Coach never beams. He knows this is an offer I can’t refuse. “Twenty years coaching and I’ve never seen an offer like this. Matter of fact, twenty years coaching and I’ve never seen a player like this either. Smashing records left and right. Makes sense your first pro offer would blow us all away.”
Jerry places a shiny gold pen on the table. Does he seriously expect me to sign on the dotted line without talking to anyone first?
I check the time on my watch.
Irie’s probably wondering where I am—or maybe not.
Rising, I tuck the contract into my bag and extend my hand. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll have my agent give this a look and we’ll get back to you.”
Jerry and Coach exchange looks. I’m sure they think I’m a fucking moron for not sealing this in blood ASAP, but that’s the last of my concerns.
I head out of the building, calling my agent on the way. I realize this is the moment I’ve worked for, the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life—and it isn’t half as exhilarating as kissing Irie.
I should be reeling. I should be walking on a fucking cloud, big dick energy and all of that.
But I feel numb, indifferent.
That kiss though?
That kiss was fire.
Chapter 11
Irie
The chair beside me is empty and I check my email once again. Maybe he’s sick? Or maybe he kissed me and changed his mind on the whole wanting me thing? Not that I care. Not that it matters …
I haven’t stopped thinking about Saturday night. And not just the kiss. I keep thinking about all the things he said, the way his sideways glances and arrogant smirks made my stomach do flips, his blatant and unapologetic desire.
I scan the packed auditorium. It’s possible he ran into someone he knew and decided to sit with them today—which is fine. But I don’t see him.
It’s half past eight. If he isn’t here yet, he’s not coming.
Professor Longmire flicks off the overhead lights and switches on the projector, clicking through a few slides until he comes to one of some ancient Mayan maps.
One of the doors down front swings open, and a strapping figure strides up the stairs, heading for the back row. Within seconds, he makes his way closer, squeezing past tiny desks with pencil-thin computers and stepping over backpacks until he takes the spot beside me.
“Hey,” I whisper to Talon.
“Hey,” he whispers as he retrieves his pen and notebook. “I miss anything?”
I point to the page and a half of notes in front of me and try to focus on the lecture. The nagging voice of reason in my head is chiding me, slating me for being so concerned with his reasons for not being here.
I shouldn’t have cared and it shouldn’t have mattered.
Still, being this close to Talon makes Saturday night’s memories come to life again. My throat constricts. My stomach tightens. I find myself stealing side glimpses of his hands, remembering the way they felt in my hair for those short-lived, sensual seconds.
By the time Longmire finishes his lecture and his TA gets the lights, it’s time to pack up and head to the next class. I gather my things and turn to Talon to let him know I’ll type up my notes and email them to him later today … only he’s on his phone.
His back is to me and he’s completely preoccupied.
This is new.
Normally he’s chasing after me, using any and every excuse he can to keep our conversation going for as long as possible.
Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I book it out of there and head to Meyer Hall, though the strangest of sensations washes over me along the way.
Disappointment, perhaps?
No.
No, that’s not possible.
I’m not feeling disappointed. I won’t allow it.
I should be relieved right now. I should be relieved that he’s losing interest in me for whatever reason. I should be relieved that he’s probably becoming someone else’s problem for the rest of the semester.
Several minutes later, I find a spot in my Interior Lighting class and get settled. The disappointment that flooded my senses a short while ago has finally dissipated, only I’ve yet to experience any actual relief.
The only thing I’m feeling right now is foolish.
I can’t believe I spent the entire weekend thinking about him, fantasizing about the teeniest, tiniest possibility of maybe, maybe, maybe giving him a chance.