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)
Kind of, yes. But also, no. “I don’t think your problem is that you’re too bold and say what you want. I think your problem is something else.”
“Who said I have a problem to begin with?”
“The only thing you seem to care about is football. You don’t think that’s a problem?”
He snorts. “What else should I care about? I love my family—my brother plays, my younger brothers play, our dad played. Should I be worried about anything else?” He begins a ticking tally on his fingers. “I don’t have a wife, I don’t have a girlfriend, I get good grades, I don’t have to worry about a job. What am I missing, Ryann, that you seem to consider a problem?”
Well, shit.
He sounds so super…insulted.
Perhaps I overstepped and should have kept my mouth shut. Now that he’s listing all these things, who the hell am I to judge how he should behave?
He’s right; he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Doesn’t want one.
Football is his wife, girlfriend, and mistress.
twenty
dallas
“Admitting you have a small dick is a big dick thing to do.”
– football teammate
Time to go to the gym.
As I lie here, staring at the ceiling, sheets and bedding pooled down near my ankles because I kicked them off my side of the bed, I weave my hands behind my head and lace my fingers together.
“The only thing you seem to care about is football. You don’t think that’s a problem?”
Nope.
Football is my career.
My future.
School is the path to get there. Who cares if I’m hyper-focused on the end game? That doesn’t make me anti-relationship.
Much.
Fine, dating is the absolute last thing on my mind and I don’t give a shit about it. So what if that doesn’t make me a well-rounded individual? My agent seems to be the only one who cares about that, but guess what? I’ve done just fine by myself so far, thankyouverymuch.
And have we forgotten my parents’ fucked-up relationship? My dad cheating on my mom every opportunity he had—while he traveled, while he was in the city for a game—all while Mom sat at home taking care of four young boys.
How she stuck it out is beyond me.
Always begging for his attention, crying in her closet after every new story about his infidelity broke. She never knew we were listening.
As the oldest, Duke tried to shield us from it.
Our dad was a great man, a damned good football player. A fucking great sports broadcaster. A legend.
Who also happened to be a shit father, one who was only proud of us when we were overachieving or winning awards for athletics. He never missed those banquets but sure didn’t give a fuck about the band concerts, homecoming parades, science fairs, or helping with academics.
Never did he ever sit down and help with math homework.
May he rest in peace…
Some men become martyrs when they die, but Pops certainly wasn’t one while he was living.
But anyway, I digress.
Unfold my arms and turn my head to look at my bed partner, a sprawled-out Ryann, ass cheeks hanging out, bare midriff revealing her belly button.
I give her a nudge. “Hey. Time to wake up.”
It’s still early, sun barely rising over the earth, but there is no rest for the weary—not in this house, not if she wants pancakes and eggs for breakfast, the breakfast of champions. Or the breakfast of three guys who burn calories like a lumberjack burns wood and have to eat like horses.
Ryann groans and rolls over.
“Hey. Sleepyhead.”
“Leave me alone,” she mumbles, hands fumbling around for the blankets. When she locates them, she yanks, pulling them up, over her waist—a fruitless effort considering the morning is about to get started.
“Ryann. It’s time for breakfast.”
I can hear my brothers coming to life in the kitchen, the blender already churning out protein smoothies and pancake batter.
She grunts.
Okay, so she’s not a morning person…
“All right, suit yourself. Guess I’ll throw on some gray sweatpants and let Tiffany and whatsherface keep me company down in the kitchen.”
That works.
Ryann throws the covers off and sits up at the edge of the bed, bedhead game strong, long hair shooting this way and that in the most adorable way.
She wipes her mouth on her arm and turns to face me, twisting at the waist.
I laugh. “Now I know your hot buttons.”
Her back arches and she begins stretching. “I’m here to do a job and keep up appearances. No one will”—yawn—“stop me from”—yawn—“doing that.”
I laugh again. “Whatever you say, sleeping beauty. I’m gonna take a piss and we can go down in a few.”
She nods, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “I have to pee, too. Hurry up.”
Precious.
Knock it off, Dallas—she’s not precious or adorable.
She has bedhead, keeps grumbling to herself as she stumbles around my bedroom trying to wake up, and she’s bossy.
I have to pee, too. Hurry up.
“You go first. I’ll go downstairs and use my brother’s toilet. Meet you in the kitchen.”