Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Hey,” he says, coming to a stop in front of us. I bend over to pick up the ball, handing it to him. “Let’s hang out again.”
I arch a brow. “Does Holden know you’re talking to me?”
He bends down a little so that he’s closer to my height, as if he’s letting me in on a secret. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I do think for myself from time to time.”
I chew on my lip, unsure. He’s one of them. And if I’m being honest, there’s still a part of me that feels some misguided sense of loyalty toward Thayer, even though he’s made it crystal clear that he wants nothing to do with me. But it wouldn’t suck to have another friend.
“Fine. I could use a friend,” I say, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. Apparently, I wasn’t as smooth as I thought I was, because his eyebrows shoot up, and he rubs a hand over his smile.
“Damn, Shayne, you’re just gonna friendzone me off the jump like that?”
I laugh, not knowing what to say.
“Relax, I’m fucking with you. Scout’s honor,” he swears, holding a palm to his chest. “Friends it is.” He holds his phone out with his other hand, and I take it, adding myself as a contact.
Before I can respond, Taylor, Alexis, and Addison march up to us.
“Good news, Shayne. You made the team,” Taylor says in her brattiest voice. “Now you can work off that fat ass you acquired over the past year.” I bite my tongue, eyes rolling skyward and patience wearing thin as she slaps my butt and skips off.
“I happen to think your ass is fucking phenomenal.” Aiden smirks, his eyes scanning my body. I try to smile back, but it feels fake on my lips. She’s such an asshole.
“It’s true,” Valen agrees, nodding. “People pay money for asses like yours.”
“Aiden!” someone shouts, throwing their arms up impatiently. I hand his phone back, and as he takes it, his fingers brush mine.
“I’ll text you later.” Then he’s jogging back to his game.
I guess Holden doesn’t have as much influence as I thought.
“You do realize Taylor’s just jealous because you’re getting attention, right?”
“I don’t really care what her deal is.” I don’t let Taylor’s words get to me. At this point, she’ll say anything to make me doubt myself.
We come to a stop at the two pieces of white printer paper taped to the wall. Worming my way through the cluster of girls gathered around, I go straight for the varsity list and run my index finger down the names, stopping when I find mine.
I close my eyes, the tension leaving my shoulders. Yes.
“Weird,” Valen says, looking entirely unsurprised. “Never would’ve guessed that the former captain would’ve made the cut.”
“Excited to have you back, Shayne,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn around to find Coach Jensen approaching. He gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“Thanks, Coach.” I smile, and this time it’s not forced. This is the first time I’ve felt excited about anything at school since last year. Not to mention, it will get my mom off my back.
“Practice starts next week. I’ll see you then.”
I nod, and then he’s walking away.
“We have a few minutes left before lunch is over,” Valen informs me. “Want to grab coffee?”
“I’ll pass. I actually have something to do.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “Sounds mysterious.”
“Hardly. I have to meet with that counselor chick who’s up my ass. See you later?”
I head toward Ms. Thomas’ office, stopping at my new locker grab my notebook first. I demanded a new one. There was no way in hell I was going to touch the cockroach locker again. Her door is cracked, and when she sees me, she waves me in, phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder. I slip inside, closing the door behind me. When she motions for me to take a seat, I do, pulling out my phone to shoot a quick text to my mom, letting her know I made the team while I wait.
“Sorry about that,” she says, setting the phone back onto the cradle on the wall behind her. “How’s the journaling coming along?”
I chew on my bottom lip, my hands squeezing the edges of my notebook. “It’s not so much journaling in the traditional sense. More like letters and random thoughts scribbled out without any rhyme or reason.”
“Oh?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“It just kind of happened,” I admit. “But I’m writing, so it still counts,” I say, defensiveness lacing my tone.
“Of course it counts,” she agrees. “And letters are a very common, very effective medium. Writing down your uncensored thoughts and feelings that you know you’ll never send can be healing.” She holds her hand out. “May I see?”
I hesitate, not wanting her, or anyone for that matter, to see me at my most vulnerable. Bringing the notebook to school is risky enough. If these words ever got into the wrong hands…