Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Scarlett: I don’t do math, remember?
Me: Shit, that’s right. I’m going to have to carry this team when it comes to numbers.
Scarlett: Very funny, wise guy.
Me: But also, true.
Me: You know, there’s a party at the house tonight.
Scarlett: The baseball house? But I thought you weren’t supposed to have parties once the season started.
Me: I know, but a few of them have their heads up their ass—they want to have a welcome home party.
I adjust myself on the couch and shift the limp dick in my jeans. It misses Scarlett as much as I do, if not more. Making love to her is my new favorite sport.
Me: Will you come back? I want to see you.
Scarlett: When?
Me: Is NOW too soon? Please.
Scarlett: No, now isn’t too soon…but then I’m at school for a week with nothing to do before classes start. And I’d miss a week of work.
Me: You can do ME for a week before classes start. I’ll come stay at your place.
Scarlett: Really? You’d stay at my place?
Is she serious? I would kill to stay at her place. We can play house and practice making babies every night.
Me: Yeah, really. Pack your shit and come home.
Scarlett: Let me think about it.
Dammit, why is she so sensible sometimes?
I run a hand through my hair, staring hard at my phone, at the screen, waiting for those three little dots to disappear and a new message to pop up.
“What the hell are you smiling at?” Blake Sheffield, one of our outfielders, grabs a controller for the gaming system in the entertainment center and points it at the television. “You look like such an idiot.”
Shit. I forgot I’m not alone.
I popped into the baseball house this afternoon to meet with the other captain of the team and a few of the older players. Then I sat my ass down on the couch and have been on it since, top popped on a bottle of Gatorade.
I wipe my mouth. “You know Scarlett?”
“Uh, no.”
“Scarlett.” I sigh, taking another chug of the ice blue liquid, opening my throat so it slides down easy. “You heard the guys calling that girl Cock Blocker a few weekends ago?”
“Yeah—what about her?”
“That’s Scarlett. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold up, bro. You have a girlfriend? Since when? When the hell did you start seeing someone?” He rattles off questions rapid-fire.
“We started seeing each other the night I kicked her out of the house.” That is technically true. “Apparently, she liked it,” I joke, taking another swig, downing the bottle and throwing it onto the coffee table. It bounces off the wood and lands on the carpet.
Sheffield watches me, expectantly. “And?” He’s so goddamn nosey, prodding for more information.
“And…that’s it. I’m telling you this because if I can convince her to come back to school, I’ll bringing her by tonight. I don’t want to be fucking embarrassed, and I don’t expect her to be hassled.”
“No man, of course not.”
“Not by Ben, not by Derek—not by anybody.”
Eager to please, he nods emphatically. “Got it.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “You know you guys aren’t supposed to be having any more parties, right?”
“Yeah—this one was Tag’s fucking idea.”
“Well if you get us in trouble, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
“I know, Rowdy, we’ve already had this conversation.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“We’re clear. And they got clearance from Coach.”
Well shit, if Coach knows about the party…
I relax my shoulders, sinking farther into the couch.
The front door opens and the team’s catcher, Dante Amado, walks through with a girl on his arm. Dark hair and even darker eyes, she trails behind him, holding his hand.
I recognize that look; it’s the same one I’ve seen on Scarlett a dozen times: uncertainty, hesitation, dread.
I don’t blame her—she’s walking into a den of wolves, but if she’s with Amado, she’s probably not a groupie, and he’ll look out for her.
As they pause in the entry to the living room, Sheffield gives them both a short wave.
“Hi.”
Dante jerks his head to the side. “Guys, you remember Amelia.”
We’re both openly staring—it’s hard not to. Dante has never brought a girl around, not while I was living here, and I would have heard about it if he had recently—our goddamn friends are nosey as hell. Curious as a group of unruly toddlers.
Sheffield sprawls in the center of the couch, remote control in his hands, pausing the game. Looks the girl over from head to toe then back up again, wrinkling his forehead.
“I thought you said her name was Lucy.”
The girl finds a smile, and then her voice. Brushes back a long strand of dark hair. “Nope. It’s Amelia. You must be confusing me with someone else.”
They make a really good-looking couple.
“Shit, sorry.”
Dante’s arms slides around his date’s waist. “Anyway, we’ll be in my room. Don’t bother us.”
We watch the pair walk out of the room, and I unlock my phone.