Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Rory nodded, then set his sunglasses on his nose and headed toward an ancient black pickup truck. I watched him for a few seconds. Or more accurately, I stared at his ass. And because timing was everything, he turned before he opened his door and gave me a knowing smile. I gave him a harried one in return and raced to my car.
I revved the engine and glanced in my rearview mirror as he pulled his truck into the exit lane. He rolled his window down and rested his arm on the ledge, tapping his fingers along to whatever he was listening to on the radio. I licked my lips and took a deep breath.
I didn’t get it. I was around guys like Rory all the damn time. Athletes with big muscles and healthy egos to match. Something set him apart. He wasn’t like anyone else I knew. And he was on to me. I could tell. He hadn’t blurted “You’re gay,” but he’d let the conversation drift to places he knew would make the average straight guy cringe. Maybe he wanted to make me uncomfortable, but somehow I doubted it.
And he knew Evan? Fuck me. Statistics was turning out to be my worst nightmare in more ways than one.
My schedule was pretty regimented; I did well with guidelines and rules. I’d been that way since I was a kid. My parents were strict and while they certainly had a lot to do with my sense of personal discipline, the rest was me. I liked being in control. And let’s face it, on a football field, the quarterback controlled everything in the offense. He called the plays and drove the action. If a QB did his job well, a run resulted in points and just like with any other game, the more points you scored, the more likely you were to win.
I liked being part of a team. I always had. Working with a group of friends toward a common goal was a powerful feeling. When I stepped onto the field with my teammates, I was instantly part of something bigger than myself. I didn’t get off on being in charge, but I was good at it, if I did say so myself. Even though I was the one calling the shots, I knew nothing happened if we weren’t all on the same page.
My dad claimed I was a lot like him. Not in an athletic sense. He was a self-proclaimed geek who got off on tidy spreadsheets and balanced budgets. He had a take-charge attitude when it came to finance. Oh yeah…and butting into my life.
Maybe that wasn’t entirely fair, but at the moment, it felt like it. I secured my towel around my waist as I glanced at the incoming message on my phone and grimaced.
Call your father, Christian. Love, Mom
I wanted to be amused by my relatively young mother’s formal style of texting, but her message bugged the hell out of me. This was how my parents communicated. My father made a broad declaration, and Mom made sure my sister and I got the message. No doubt to avoid aggravation later. Don’t get me wrong—my dad wasn’t a bad guy. He was compulsive about details, order, and attention. I knew his heart was in the right place. He wanted me to succeed, which I totally appreciated. But I resented his heavy-handed style of inserting himself into every facet of my life. I was an adult, for fuck’s sake.
It was one thing for him to be somewhat aware of my class and practice schedule, but he didn’t need to know every minor detail in between. Or maybe I was aggravated that they’d disturbed my Rory-infused daydreams.
I’d thought about him nonstop since Monday afternoon. I was nervous about meeting him again and at the same time, I couldn’t fucking wait. I studied nonstop and occasionally texted to ask him questions when I got lost on a problem. Maybe he was on to me. Maybe he knew I’d never cracked a math book this many times within a forty-eight-hour period in my life and that the only reason I did so now was to have an excuse to talk to him.
Wow. I was a head case.
I typed a quick message to my mom, letting her know I’d call Dad on my way home; then I shoved my cell into my bag. I used a little more force than necessary, which caused an avalanche of events. First, my phone fell on the locker room floor. Then I stepped back to pick it up and bumped into someone behind me. And then…I accidentally stripped his towel off when I tried to steady myself.
Let’s be real. Nudity in the locker room was a nonevent. We’d seen it all and then some. Conversations about ball placement and tackling techniques while washing your junk in the shower didn’t faze anyone on the team. But there was always one idiot who couldn’t pass up an opportunity to make a stupid joke.