Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
It’s not fair to her.
Today, I just couldn’t resist her, and when she needed me to take her home, I practically jumped at the chance, jonesing for just a few minutes alone with her.
I have feelings for her, scary fucking feelings that keep me awake at night.
Like wanting to burn shit down to make her happy.
Like being willing to walk across scorching hot coals just to hold her in my arms.
I just need to…forget her.
Forget those big eyes.
Forget how she makes me laugh.
Move on.
My head goes back to my parents, and tightness builds in my stomach. They stumbled in and out of our trailer, high and glassy-eyed, needing their next fix. I had basic needs taken care of—mostly—but I never felt loved. Not once did they ever say it. Neither of them looked at me, their eyes going right over the restless, frustrated kid I was. Stop wriggling. Shut the fuck up. Watch TV.
They left me at a gas station. They left. People leave. Charisma will too. One day.
I drive down the highway to the gym, barely knowing where I’m going, operating on autopilot.
Dammit.
I’ve got to focus on what really matters, on my dreams and how bad I want it.
But.
I want—
Her.
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going on like this. I tried to remove her from my head last fall, and here I am again. She deserves better than this. She doesn’t need a coward. My hands clench around the steering wheel as I pull into the field house and park.
* * *
Dillon has one foot on the bench press seat and points at the bar loaded down with weights. “You game for some more weight?”
I grin. We’ve been working out for an hour and I’m sweating, but bring it on.
“My personal best is 290 pounds,” I say.
“Not bad for a slow wide receiver,” he says. “You can do better.”
I laugh. “You trying to kill me?”
He studies me. “Just trying to keep you busy. You seem distracted. Wanna try more?”
I do the quick math on the bar on the bench; it’s around 315 pounds.
I lie down below the bar and put my hands on it. “Let me show you how Mississippi boys lift.” With a grimace, I blow out a breath and push up, and he helps me lower the bar to my chest.
“Ready?”
I give him a nod and he releases it, his face serious as shit. Adrenaline ratchets me up, and I clench my fingers around the metal.
I breathe out, the muscles in my arms and chest tightening as gravity threatens. The bar starts to rise, and I get almost to the top then stop, quivering. My arms scream, and I feel like my chest is going to split in half.
“Come on, man, do it,” he says.
“I am!”
He balls up his fists and gets in my face. “You will never play in the NFL, boy. You’re just a small-town kid in a big-city world. You don’t belong in pro football. You’re too slow.”
My eyes flash.
He gives me a hard look, green eyes shining. “You’ll die alone, Blaze. Worst thing is, Charisma is moving on, but you don’t want her anyway. Maybe I’ll start tapping that.” He mimics a motion of doing her from behind, slapping an imaginary ass. “Oh, yeah, just like that. So good, so good…”
“Dillon!” I call out and shove at the bar until it’s at the top. My gaze lands on him. “You sonofabitch, I’m going to beat the shit out of you. Don’t you ever say—”
He laughs, holding his chest. “Ah, don’t get pissy. I’m pumping you up, man, and I got you.”
My teeth grit, anger hot. I take several deep breaths. He’s just messing around, I know he is, and that’s the only reason I decide to let it slide.
“Asshole,” I mutter. “Someday some girl is going to twist you up, and I hope I’m there to see it.”
He slaps his chest. “This heart is cold as ice, man. I thought yours was, but…” He grins.
I immediately drop the bar back to my chest again and force it up a second time. He cheers and a few of the other guys come over to watch.
After the third rep, Dillon helps me move the bar back to the rack, and my arms go limp. I just bench-pressed twenty-five more pounds than my maximum. Damn.
The guys slap me on the back, and Dillon puffs up and looks around at them. “See? Good wasn’t enough for Blaze here. That’s why he is going to the NFL come draft time, and we’re still here practicing for next season. You commit and focus like Blaze and maybe you’ll get somewhere one day.”
Dude. That might not happen, my eyes tell him, but he’s on a roll, and I know he’s positioning himself as captain next year.
“Blaze Townsend!” calls Coach Sanders from the door. His eyes land on me. “In my office, now!”