Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“You could try normal conversation.”
“You usually shut me down when I do.”
I turned to face him fully, shoulders back and chin tilted up. “Try me,” I said. “Tell me something real.”
“Something real?”
I nodded.
Holden’s eyes flicked between mine, his tongue swiping out to wet his bottom lip just marginally before he turned toward me just as earnestly. “Okay,” he said, and then he leaned in close, jaw set. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since the moment you walked through that door tonight.”
My breath hitched.
I felt it, stuck somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, and yet I couldn’t reach for either one.
Holden didn’t waver, didn’t back down. His eyes continued searching mine, and I saw the challenge in them, the dare for me not to run. And part of me wanted to lean in. Part of me wanted to meet that challenge.
But the instinct was too strong.
I finally found an exhale, lilting it into a laugh as I broke eye contact and stood. “God, you’re so patronizing.”
I took a step toward the house, but before I could take another, Holden stood, his calloused hand slipping into the crook of my elbow and spinning me to face him. We were so close my chest met his, and I kept my gaze on the zipper of his pullover for fear of looking up, fear of meeting his gaze I felt burning down at me.
“Stop trying to laugh me off,” he said, voice reverberating through my ribcage. “And look at me when I tell you how enamorating you are.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now,” he argued. “And it was made for you.”
I swallowed as his knuckles found my chin and lifted it, causing my gaze to meet his. As if that touch didn’t burn already, his fingers uncurled, palm cupping my cheek. He followed the movement of his fingers as they drew a line along my jaw, traced the outline of my lips, and finally swept gently underneath my eye, as if he was trying to erase the tiredness he saw there.
His Adam’s apple bobbed hard in his throat, the muscle of his jaw flexing like he was restraining himself.
I closed my eyes.
Looking at him that closely was too much. But it was even worse once my sight was gone because every other sense kicked into overdrive. I heard the labored inhale he carefully drew, felt where I leaned into his palm even though I should have torn away.
My eyes popped open.
“You can’t have me,” I reminded him, though my voice was shallow, weak.
“Says who?”
“My father.”
His eyes fell to my lips, his next breath warming them.
“As long as it’s not you saying it, I don’t care.”
Holden tilted my chin even more, angling his mouth for mine. And I sucked in my last haggard breath, closing my eyes again, surrendering.
For the split second before good sense found me.
Because I knew regardless of what his words said, it wasn’t true. He did care. He had to care.
Or he’d be off the team.
And just two weeks of that had nearly killed him already.
I could almost taste him, his lips brushing mine when I said, “Then I’m saying it, too.”
I pressed a hand into his chest, and Holden paused, his lips still hovering so close to mine that just a fraction of an inch would give us both the reprieve we longed for. But we were drunk. We were being reckless.
There wasn’t a world that existed where Holden Moore could have me, and I could have him in return.
“Goodnight, Cap,” I breathed.
And he released me.
Holden
Blake Russo must have really taken the advice I’d given him to heart because that Saturday he led our team in a win against the Vikings.
And the following week at home, he did it again.
It was invigorating — for him and the team and the coaching staff, too. All the odds had been stacked against us, but the backup quarterback had shown grit, and the team had pulled together, and we had won.
It should have been invigorating for me, too. It was what I’d wanted.
And yet, I felt the all-too-familiar sting of being useless.
And even worse — the team had been fine without me.
I never spoke those selfish, whiny, child-like thoughts out loud, not when we were on the road and not when we were back at the stadium, either. But they were there, deeply rooted in my chest and the seeded fear I’d always had of being defective, of not being needed.
I woke with night sweats, panic zipping through my spine like lightning at the realization that this could be it for me, it could all be over. I saw the draft slipping out of my fingers no matter how I tried to tighten my grip, saw scouts turning their gaze to other prospects with me on the bench.