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)
When I got home, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, found the message thread with Tucker, and read through our last few messages. We hadn’t spoken or talked since he’d called to pry into my nonexistent love life a couple of weeks ago.
I was having one of the best seasons of my career, and the Royals were on track to be a real contender for the Super Bowl. I’d proven to myself that even having hooked up with Tucker, I could set that aside on the field and not let it get in my head.
So far. But we hadn’t played the Rush yet.
I closed my eyes, giving myself a solid thirty seconds to remember our last encounter, his skin on mine, his big hands splayed over my abs. Then I blinked my eyes open and tapped out: No more of this.
He’d know what I meant, and I suspected he’d honor it, too.
I paused before hitting Send and stared at the message long and hard. Did I want this? What the fuck did I want?
Then, exhaling a curse, I erased the message and typed a different one.
Whitt: I wanted the Rush bad. I fucking despised you when they drafted you instead.
I was starting to send another message when his reply came through.
Tucker: I know.
Tucker: And now?
No witty banter, no snarky replies. It felt inexplicably different, and I considered my reply for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Whitt: I don’t know.
Whitt: But I do know they made the right choice.
After hitting Send, I silenced my phone and put it facedown on my nightstand. Whatever he had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.
Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to.
I loved when we played Vegas. Some of the other Royals had beef with them, but I had absolutely no ties with them, good or bad. Had hardly spoken more than a few words to any of their players, which meant there was no internal noise to shut off, even when we were on their turf, like tonight. There was nothing but clarity and focus.
As their offense lined up, ready to take on our defense, I stood at the line of scrimmage, my eyes locked on Ramirez, the wide receiver in front of me, my senses fine-tuned for any flinch or shift of his body. It was the kind of focus I’d practiced for hours a day when I’d first started playing, just trying to be conscious of every little movement the human body could make, spot the tells of motion even within minute movements. Over time, my body adapted and learned to pick up the patterns and assess in a split second. There were moments it felt like a superpower and made all the grueling practice worth it. Hell, that feeling was a huge reason I loved football. I’d put in the work. I’d done it. No one bought it for me, no one handed it to me. Every bit of my prowess on the turf had been paid for with my own blood, sweat, and tears.
The QB’s voice echoed through the air, shouting the cadence amid the roaring stadium, and the second the ball was snapped, Ramirez exploded off the line. I mirrored his movements fluidly, effortlessly, fully in the zone. It wasn’t the first time I’d been up against him, and his speed easily matched mine. He made a sharp cut, trying to shake me off, but I anticipated it and, with a burst of acceleration, closed the gap at the same time I stretched my hand out, aiming to block the incoming pass.
My goal was always to interrupt passes. Anything on top of a blocked pass was icing. The receiver stumbled a fraction, and I saw an opportunity. As the ball soared through the air and Ramirez regained his footing, I pivoted, arm outstretched. My fingertips grazed the leather, and for a split second’s worth of disappointment, I thought I’d lose it. Fuck that. Adrenaline surged through me, and I leapt, clamping down on the ball with my other hand and barely keeping my balance as I landed. I had no time to think; I just took off running at full speed, expecting at any second to be slammed from behind. Barker ran interference, crashing into one of Vegas’s guards as he rushed me. Spotting a seam to the far left, I kept booking it, weaving down the field, trusting my teammates to rally, trusting my legs, trusting the furious and wild beat of my heart as exhilaration lit up every nerve ending and fueled me. The noise in the stadium crescendoed to a raging buzz as the end zone loomed. Dodging another guard, and certain I could feel the collective breath of Vegas on the back of my neck, I dove.
Time slowed, and I swore I could count the blades of grass as I broke the plane of the goal line on my way down. Every bone in my body jarred as I slammed into the turf, but the only thing I felt was the solid weight of the ball still in my grip.