Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Unbuckling my seat belt, I give him a forced smile. “Thanks for the lift.”
Dick.
“No problem.” If he had a cowboy hat, I imagine he’d tip it toward me in some forced gesture of Southern humility.
I hop out of the truck, phone already in the palm of my hand.
Dallas Colter continues watching me from the curb, and I stop in the middle of the lawn, pivoting on my heels so I can stare him down.
“Go.” I shoo him away, irritated.
A few more seconds, then finally he’s pulling away. I watch as his taillights disappear down the street.
“Well. This was a fucked-up night.”
three
dallas
“If love is the answer, I’m going to need you to
rephrase the question.”
– Dallas
Things I’ve never been accused of, in no particular order:
Giving a shit about other people’s opinions of me
Caring what my clothes look like
Wanting a relationship
Making friends
I have no time for any of that bullshit.
So when my new agent, Elias Cohen, calls and says, “Dallas, I think you need more of a personal life,” I’m taken aback.
“Come again?” I heard what he said, but I need him to repeat it.
“Teams like to know that you’re well-rounded. These days they’re looking for more family-oriented players than what we’ve been used to in the past. Guys who don’t get caught with their pants down around their ankles and don’t constantly post themselves partying on social media.”
“Whatcha mean then by personal life? I don’t have social media and I don’t sleep around.”
“Well now, that’s the thing. Maybe you should start an Instagram so they have something to look at when they’re trying to decide if they want you on their team.” He briefly moves out of frame in our video chat, reemerging with his cell phone. “See here? Even Eric Decker has an Instagram. Tons of followers, too.”
“Eric is retired.”
“But look how wholesome he is. That’s what team owners want.”
Wholesome? Since when is a man wholesome?
“Why do I have to create a social media account so I can be fake?”
“It’s about cultivating an image. Think of it as marketing.”
I’ll think of it all right.
Not.
“What am I supposed to do, go to the pumpkin patch and pose for pictures?”
“See now, that’s a great idea.”
“I was kiddin’.”
“I know.” He laughs. “Just think about it. And you’re going to hate hearing this since I know your views on relationships while you’re in the middle of a season, but it wouldn’t hurt you to be seen with a responsible young woman.”
I can’t help it—I let out a loud, gut-busting laugh before I can stop myself. Eli is being serious, and that’s funnier than any shit I’ve heard this week. “A responsible young woman? Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“I meant…stay away from party girls or young women who only want to be influencers.”
“That’ll be easy enough since I don’t intend on findin’ anyone to date, period.” End of story.
Eli shuffles some papers around on his desk. “Listen, I’m not going to go too hard on the subject, but I want you to give it some serious thought. I’ll probably circle back around on it next week.”
I tilt my head back and squint up at the ceiling. “What am I supposed to be giving a serious thought to?” I scratch my head so I appear more dense.
My agent rolls his eyes.
The agent my brother insisted I meet.
The agent my brother insisted I consider signing.
So I did.
I signed with the most cut-throat, successful sports agent in the United States, possibly even the world. A man who represents the world’s best up-and-coming athletes. Tennis players, wrestlers, skiers, snowboarders. Football and baseball players. Soccer. Sailing.
He represents them all, and he’s damn good at it.
And now he’s telling me I need to be seen in public with a respectable girl?
“I don’t know any.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know any respectable girls.”
Eli laughs. “What the hell does that mean? Don’t tell me you’ve slept with half the female population on campus.” He wipes a hand down his face.
“That’s not what I meant. I just meant…I don’t hang out anywhere.” I don’t party, either. I rarely drink. I live with my brothers, spend time with my brothers, watch movies in my free time—the classics they only show at the little theater in town, across from ROSCOE + MIMI.
“What do you mean you don’t hang out anywhere?” He repeats my words, confusion etched on his brow.
I shrug. “I don’t like going out.” Simple as that, and it’s not like it’s a crime.
“And you don’t know a single female?”
My mind strays to the girls who live in the house next door, three of them who behave like stray cats in heat, showing up without warning, without an invitation. Dressed up, tits out.
They deserve an A for effort but won’t be trapping none of the Colter boys—not if I can help it.
“Just the girls next door.”