Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Deal,” I told her. And that’s exactly what we did.
A year and a half later
It was the first day of another year at camp. We had an NFL player coming to spend a day with us toward the end of the two weeks, and I was fucking stoked. This year was the first one I’d feared I wouldn’t be accepted, that they’d found another low-income center who deserved the scholarship more than me. Maybe they had and that person had changed their mind since the letter, which usually came several weeks before camp, had come just a few days ago.
Mom moved heaven and earth to change plans to make sure she could get me here since she hadn’t scheduled any time off, and we had to be dropped off by a parent or guardian.
Parents always stayed for most of the first day. Mom had just left a little while ago, and I was sitting under the bleachers they kept close to the field for parents and sometimes scouts who came to watch. I liked to go under here to chill, only this time, I was wondering where Whitt was. Not a year went by that I’d come to Football Plus and he hadn’t been here, but I hadn’t seen him or his dad all day. He still played, that much I knew. At least he had during football season because, even though our school didn’t play his, Whitt’s name was in every article and on every fucking local news channel when he played.
But he wasn’t at camp…and I was still thinking about the motherfucking guy I hated. I had no idea why he messed with my brain so much, and I didn’t like it at all.
It was only a few minutes later when I heard the voice that haunted my nightmares—Patrick Whitt.
“Dad…people are going to wonder why we came so late…”
I snuck quietly toward the direction of his voice, still trying to stay hidden beneath the bleachers.
“I don’t care, Patrick. You’re lucky we allowed you to come at all. Don’t you think it’s time you put this silly dream to bed? We’ve indulged you long enough. You’re a Whitt, and you belong at Whitt Industries.”
“It’s not silly,” Whitt replied. “This is what I want—what I’ve always wanted.”
Silly dream? What the fuck? This wasn’t what Whitt led us to believe about his dad at all.
“And what makes you think we always get what we want? You have for most of your life, but you’re almost eighteen. What are the chances you’re going to make it to the NFL?”
“Really good, which you would know if you watched me play. If you actually listened when scouts or Coach…” His words trailed off, and I couldn’t hear what he said next.
I was trying to figure out if I’d fallen asleep and was having a really weird Whitt-dream or something. His dad never watched him play? Now that I thought about it, Whitt always bragged about how supportive his parents were, but neither of them was ever at our end-of-camp scrimmage games. Whitt always made up some excuse about work shit.
“I’m tired of pretending like playing a sport your whole life is a viable career path. This business has been in our family for over a hundred years, and you want to throw that away for a silly game?”
“How many times do I have to tell you it’s not silly to me!” Whitt shouted. “It’s the only thing I’m good at! The only thing I love!”
Whitt’s dad’s cell rang. “I need to take this. I won’t be able to pick you up at the end of camp. I already had to rearrange my entire schedule to bring you since they want a parent or guardian here for drop-off and your mom was unavailable. Candace will pick you up though.”
His dad answered the call and walked away. Whitt closed his eyes and dropped his head back, his body language completely changing. Gone was the cocky shit-talker, and instead, he looked…fuck, he looked really goddamned sad. His shoulders curled in, and his body nearly slumped. This wasn’t the Whitt I knew.
I took a step forward, then another, watching as Whitt took a few deep breaths. When his eyes opened, they automatically landed on me, rotating through shock, embarrassment, then anger.
“Are you fucking spying on me?” He stormed at me as if he were going to punch me.
“Don’t give yourself that much credit. I was chillin’ under here and heard you… I…I’m sorry.” Why did he lie about his dad? I had no problem letting people know my sperm donor had been a son of a bitch.
His blue gaze hardened, hooded beneath his thick lashes. “Don’t feel sorry for me, and I swear to Christ, Tucker, if you say a goddamned word—”
“I won’t,” I cut him off. I didn’t like the guy, but I disliked his dad more now. And I wasn’t the guy who spread people’s business. Whitt’s shit was his own.