Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
So…yeah.
I nibble my lower lip as Willow pulls the laptop toward her and focuses on the screen. I’m watching so closely that I see the exact moment her brow furrows.
That’s all it takes for my muscles to lock as I prepare myself for a barrage of questions and comments. Ones that will ultimately leave me feeling like a dumbass.
And that’s the last kind of guy she’s going to want to fuck.
The longer she remains silent, pressing the down arrow and scrolling through the second half of the paper, the more tension gathers in my shoulder blades as my foot thumps a steady rhythm.
I really fucking hate writing.
And reading.
It’s so damn difficult.
Torturous.
How anyone finds pleasure in the activity is beyond me.
The computer helps. Spellcheck and other grammar tools are a lifesaver.
It sucked when I was in elementary school and everything had to be handwritten. Most of my teachers couldn’t make heads or tails out of my penmanship.
And spelling?
Forget about it.
I can’t spell to save my life.
Even if I memorized the word, the letters don’t always come out looking like they should.
I steal another glance at her.
Yep, definite mistake.
There’s only one way this is going to end.
And that’s badly.
24
Willow
My thoughts churn as I digest the final paragraph of Maverick’s paper. The topic focuses on whether college athletes should be paid. Despite the punctuation and grammatical errors, it’s both interesting and informative. There are some paragraphs that are short and abrasively to the point. They need to be expanded with more supporting examples and evidence to back up the ideas. Then there are others that seem to ramble and meander before finally coming to a close. It’s almost like he forgot the main point he was trying to get across to the reader. Better organization of his thoughts would also help.
Those are all correctable problems we can work on.
What struck me most is that reading Maverick’s paper reminded me of all the times I helped my brother with his homework in high school. There are the same patterns of errors with punctuation, grammar, and organization that lead me to believe Maverick might have the same issue.
Dyslexia.
I’m certainly not an expert, and I could be wrong.
That’s what I’m most afraid of.
As I gather my thoughts, I peek at the hockey player, only to find him watching me intently.
The easy confidence of before is notably absent from his expression. In its place is a look of tension.
It only reinforces my hunch.
If he’s anything like River, it’s a sensitive topic.
My brother struggled all through elementary school before finally being diagnosed in fourth grade. By then, the damage had been done and he hated school. He was often made to feel like he wasn’t as smart as his peers. When he would get frustrated, he’d end up acting out and causing problems for his teachers. Or he’d get into fights with other students.
There were times when I wondered if River would have the grades to get into college. He worked with a tutor all through high school and managed to turn things around for himself.
I’m proud of him for that.
His path to playing hockey at East Town wasn’t easy.
How ironic is it that the more I get to know Maverick, the more I realize how much he and River have in common. If they weren’t constantly pitted against one another, they could have been friends.
It’s not always easy to find people who have walked a similar path and understand the challenges you’ve faced.
“Is it total trash? Just don’t tell me that I have to start from scratch, because this paper is due in two days and there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to get it done.”
I force a smile, wanting to alleviate the strain woven through his deep voice. Before I realize it, my hand drifts to his bare arm where he’s shoved up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
His attention drops to the place where we’re now connected.
Heat stings my cheeks when I realize what I’ve done.
Which is kind of comical, because we’ve been far more intimate than me touching his arm in a public space and offering support. Although, this is the first time I’ve initiated physical contact.
The moment I try to remove my fingers, his other hand settles over mine, locking it in place.
My gaze collides with his before becoming ensnared in his dark depths. That’s all it takes for my mouth to turn bone dry, making speech impossible.
“I like when you touch me.”
The gravel in his voice settles at the bottom of my belly like a heavy stone.
Truth be told, I like touching him too, but I’m not about to admit that. I get the feeling if I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.
“You don’t have to redo it. There’s a lot here for us to work with,” I reassure.
His muscles gradually loosen and his brows rise. “You think so?”