Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“What happened then? What do you do when you’re sick?”
“Nothing. You play through it.” That’s what you do when it’s your job and you have scholarships and agents and people depending on you to perform.
That’s just what you do. You walk out onto the field whether you want to or not. Whether you’re sick as a dog or not.
You just do it.
Suck it up, JJ, Pops would shout from the sidelines. If you’re going to puke, do it in the end zone. I was never allowed to be home sick in bed.
“I don’t think I could do it. I’m too big of a wimp. Like, I get my period and the cramps alone turn me into the biggest baby. No way could I walk out onto a field if I didn’t feel good.”
“You would. Trust me—you would.”
“Mmm, I’m not so sure. You’re built of sterner stuff than I am.”
“Maybe,” I agree, knowing she’s right. I might have been raised—trained—to play, but I also believe people are born with the qualities that make them stick with it. People are born fighters, winners, follow-throughers.
You can’t teach it or learn it; you have it or you don’t.
“How many cold baths do you take in a week?” she asks.
Cold bath? “Um, none?”
“You know, that pool thing filled with ice?”
Oh, she means the ice bath. “A few times a week, depending. It helps recovery after a game or hard workout, for inflammation and shit.”
“Is it actually filled with ice?”
“No. I mean, some of them are, but ours are more state-of-the-art. It’s a fancy tub with really fucking cold water. Then you get out and get into the hot tub, then back into the ice bath.” It’s a form of torture.
“That sounds awful.”
It really is. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Are you sorry you chose Iowa? Will it hurt your chances once you graduate?”
Maybe. But I doubt it. “Not according to my agent. I’m at the top of my game.”
“Top of your game—what does that mean?”
“It means…” How do I say this without sounding like an arrogant prick? “It means I’m one of the best players in my position.”
“At Iowa?”
“No. In the country.”
Charlie’s eyes get wide. “Really?”
Seriously. How does she not know this—hasn’t she googled me yet? “Yes, really. Do you not follow along? Are you not my biggest fan?”
She laughs, and her boobs seem to get even bigger. “I don’t follow along, sorry. The game you invited me to was the only one I’ve been to in forever.”
“It’s America’s pastime—how do you not have a team?”
“America’s pastime is baseball.”
Is she for real? “No, it’s football.”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Agree to disagree.”
“Do you even watch baseball?”
I can see her blushing from here. “No.”
Her disgruntled reply makes me laugh, and without thinking, I reach for her, extending my arm and resting my large palm on her bare shoulder.
We both freeze.
It’s my knee-jerk reaction to apologize, but Charlie isn’t giving me a look of disgust. Nope. She’s biting her lip and smiling, white teeth illuminating her face.
God she’s so pretty.
Palm splayed, my fingers fan out. Stroke her soft skin, thumb moving over her clavicle. I knew girls were softer and more delicate, but I’ve never actually touched one like this.
Charlie’s face changes the longer my hand stays on her body; I watch it go from surprised to fascinated to…turned on? Her pupils are dilating and her chest is starting to heave, which is weird. Is that right? My hand on her shoulder is actually getting her aroused?
Shit. This is too easy. Maybe I don’t have to have much experience—maybe it has to do with the person you’re with.
Maybe if you’re really into someone, you don’t have to be smooth or suave—maybe just being myself is enough.
I test the theory.
Move my hand south.
Charlie’s nostrils flare as her eyelids droop.
Huh.
“Tired?” I move my hand back up to her shoulder. Let it trail down her upper arm.
“Um…not really.”
Man her skin feels amazing. Mine is sunburned and chafed and rough in comparison. I could touch her all night, and I’m confident now that she’d let me.
She continues watching me, still rolled to her side. Boobs still deliciously squished together and on display, her stark white bra a lacy little number that leaves little to my imagination—I can see her dark nipples through the fabric. Try not to notice them pucker when I let the pads of my fingertips linger on her bicep.
We lie like this for who knows how long, my hand resting in the same spot, fingers exploring but not to their full potential. I don’t have the balls to put my hands anywhere else; what if she slugs me? What if she likes it and I don’t know how to handle it?
What if, what if, what if.
Fuck!
“Jackson. Stop overthinking everything.” She’s whispering, and it’s sexy as fuck despite the words being cajoling. “You’re not going to screw it up.”