Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
What words to use.
What gestures to make.
What should I do exactly?
Which is so unusual for me.
Because I’m good at lying. I’m good at acting.
It’s just that… They’re all so friendly and the more I get to know them, the more I find that I hate lying to them. And that’s what I’m doing, aren’t I? I’m lying about certain things.
I’m saved, though, when the room explodes with applause and their attention diverts.
Thank God.
Instead, we all focus on what’s happening on the raised platform, which serves as the makeshift stage where my dad has begun his speech. He talks about how much money he’s raised for the team via charity events and his campaigning during off-season. Followed by how he built the team that’s all set to be on its winning streak, all by himself.
I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel bad for the team.
For the people who actually do the work.
Like the players and the coaches.
I’ve never been interested in soccer, but I can imagine how hard they work. How disciplined they have to be in order to achieve this level of excellence.
But my dad’s always been like that. He cares about himself, his money, his status, his reputation. And my mom, who’s sitting up front, is a perfect match for him. Despite being from two very vastly different cultures, my parents are actually happy together. Or as happy as they can be with their suppressed emotions and negativity.
When my dad’s done talking about his achievements, he dedicates the last ten seconds or so to the coach of the team. Meaning he introduces him by the name and welcomes him on the stage, and that’s about it.
Applause breaks out once again as Coach Thorne takes the stage. While my dad described his cleverness in much detail, Coach Thorne is succinct and to the point. He rests all the success on his players’ and his staff’s shoulders. He praises them for their dedication and hard work during the off-season, and talks about how they need to keep doing what they’ve been doing because the new season’s upon them. When he’s done, he welcomes the next person: the captain of the team.
The captain of the team is just as succinct as his coach was. Who also happens to be his brother, by the way; yeah, there are a lot of Thornes and they’re all affiliated with the New York City FC. Only his speech is laden with the F-word and a couple of jokes of the dirty variety. Which earns him copious amounts of laughter and a side-eye from his big brother, who’s back at the table we’re all sitting at. But when his speech is over, the laughter and applause and whistles that break out can probably be heard throughout New York City. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that people were relieved that he was leaving.
But I do know better.
They’re not making this ruckus because their captain has left the stage.
They’re applauding because of where he’s going.
They’re jubilant because of who he’s striding toward. All purposefully and determinedly.
Toward his girlfriend.
And when he reaches her, he leans down and offers her his hand, and the applause that I didn’t think could get any louder does. So much so that I don’t think I can hear my own heartbeats anymore. I don’t think I can hear my own thoughts.
Maybe that’s why it takes me a second or two to realize that he’s offering his hand to me.
That people are clapping and cheering for us.
Because I’m her.
I’m the girlfriend.
Me.
Isadora Agni Holmes.
Shepard ‘The Wrecking’ Thorne’s girl.
Chapter 2
He’s staring at me.
From his spot across the ballroom, where he’s watching everyone else at this party, I imagine his eyes on me. That he’s watching me dance with him.
His twin brother.
That he’s watching and he’s seething.
His fingers are tightening and tightening around his still almost full whiskey tumbler. His dark eyes, chocolate brown like his hair, are narrowing and flashing. His jaw, always clean-shaven and so angular and hard, is clenching in anger.
I imagine he wants to push off that wall and stride across the room.
And he wants to do it in a hurry.
So much so that he shoves people away. He puts his large hands on their body and physically removes them from his path. And he can do it too. He’s so tall and broad and built. Not in a brutish way, though. In a way that all soccer players are built: sleek and sculpted, with dense bones and streamlined muscles. Even though he doesn’t play anymore, he still looks the part. And he’s going to use his quiet strength to destroy all obstacles in his path to get what he wants.
Me.
And when, at last, he gets to me, I imagine him ripping me from his twin’s arms. I imagine him spinning me around and crashing me against his muscular body. And when I gasp at the force, at his violence, he captures it with his cigarette-smoking mouth.