Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 42306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
The guy’s eyes narrow as he rises to his full height, which is a couple inches taller than Dad.
Is that a flicker of shock-tinged anger filling his dark depths?
Interesting. It’s there and gone before I can decipher what it means.
If anything.
Dad claps the younger man on the shoulder. “Mason, this is my daughter, Poppy. I’m not sure if you two have met before.” He releases a chuckle. “If you did, it was a long time ago when Poppy was still in middle school.”
Mason.
The name echoes throughout my brain before I commit it to memory.
His eyes widen slightly before resettling on me again. “I don’t think so.” Instead of reaching out to shake my hand, he gives me a terse chin lift. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
“Poppy’s a junior this year.”
The other man nods. Whatever had flared to life in his eyes is now long gone. For all I know, it had never been there to begin with. I have no way to be sure. It all happened so fast.
Dad’s face lights up. “Hey, why don’t you join us for lunch. It’ll give you two a chance to get to know one another.”
Mason’s gaze jerks from mine to my father before he shakes his head, not bothering to consider the invitation. “Sorry, I can't. I need to talk with the trainers about a couple players. Maybe another time?”
“Of course. Anne and I were just talking about having you over for dinner one of these nights. I’ll check some dates and get back to you.”
“Sounds good. Looking forward to it.” With that, he takes a giant step in retreat. His gaze flickers to mine, touching on it briefly before looking away. “It was nice meeting you.
“Yeah. You, too.”
Before I can come up with a reason to detain him, he swings away, disappearing around the corner. A couple seconds later, the locker room door opens before being slammed shut again, leaving Dad and I alone together.
“Do you remember Hunter Price?” Dad asks, recapturing my distracted attention.
Of course I do. If people were discussing Claremont football, they were talking about the talented quarterback. It was one and the same.
“Sure. Didn’t he get drafted to Atlanta?”
“Yup,” he says with a grin. “That was Mason, his brother.”
Huh.
It’s only when I conjure up a mental image of Hunter that I realize how similar the two men are. Both have dark hair and eyes, athletic builds, and are broad in the shoulders.
“Does he play professional football, too?” He certainly looks like he could, and from what I felt when I’d been crushed against him, he’s all hard, sinewy strength. Desire flares to life in the pit of my belly.
Or maybe it flares a little bit lower than that.
Dad shakes his head before leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms against his chest. For a moment, his gaze drifts to the last place Mason had been before disappearing from sight.
“Nope. He attended Claremont and played for two years before dropping out. It’s a real shame, because he was a talented quarterback. Since Jeff decided to take the head coach position at Wisconsin, I’ve asked Mason to come on as an assistant coach.”
Interesting.
As tempting as it is to fire off a bazillion questions and do a deep dive on this guy, I keep them to myself.
For the time being.
“Where should we grab lunch?” he asks, interrupting the whirl of my thoughts.
“Poco Loco?” I say easily.
“Best Mexican in town.”
I couldn’t agree more.
And maybe—if I’m lucky—I’ll be able to ferret out some information about Dad’s new coach.
Mason
I yank open the door to the lecture hall and grind to a halt as my gaze coasts over the roomful of students laughing and chatting with one another. That’s all it takes for uncertainty to crash over me again.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t fit in.
Or belong.
I’m too damn old to be an undergrad.
I shift my backpack. The heavy weight resting against my shoulder feels more like a blast from the past than my current reality.
“Hey, you gonna move or what?” an impatient voice says from behind.
I blink and realize that I’m standing in the middle of the aisle near the door, holding up traffic. One glance over my shoulder shows a handful of annoyed people waiting to file into the spacious hall.
A dull heat creeps into my cheeks as I step aside.
“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling even more like a dumbass.
It’s so tempting to swing around and plow my way toward the exit. To forget about this idiotic idea of finishing up my degree and finally graduating.
What do I really need it for anyway?
Not the small mechanic business I started up a couple years ago out of my garage. That had been the plan before Derek Andrews filled my head with a bunch of crap about assisting him with his Division I football program.