Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
With that done, I find a treadmill at the end of the row and crank up the speed and incline immediately.
I run with blinders on, though I’m aware of Beck two machines away. I keep my eyes ahead, but I know his pace is hard and fast. My senses tune into the rhythm of his running. I can pick out the slap of his sneakers on the belt even in the busy gym.
There’s nothing awkward about this. I don’t need to find a new gym. Beck’s barely a former hookup. He’s just another baller in the same town.
That. Is. All.
I set a personal record on the treadmill—forty-five minutes at an incline of, like, three thousand.
With my heart racing, I hop off the machine, grab a towel from the front desk, and head to the locker room, wiping my brow. At the row of sinks, I wash my hands as someone comes around the corner. I look up and lock eyes with Beck in the mirror. For a second, I see that hungry look he had at my house a year ago, sneaking glances at me as we watched episode after episode of Unfinished Business on my big screen. His eyes flicker with heat, but the fire dies so fast that maybe I imagined it.
Was there no other gym he could have joined?
“Good workout?” he asks as he turns on the other sink and then splashes water on his face.
“The best,” I say because I don’t know what to talk about other than this . . . bullshit.
We should be able to talk without getting riled up. Clearly, I’ll be seeing him around.
I turn off the water. A moment later, he does the same, then—“Carter told me about this gym,” he blurts.
Dude seems to have two speeds with his mouth—Mach and molasses.
It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. He’s worried I think he signed up for me.
Yeah, Beck, it’s fucking clear where you stand on me.
“Carter’s a good guy,” I say. Then, since someone needs to set the pace, I shrug as I dry my hands on the towel draped over my shoulder. “I like him well enough . . . for a Renegade.”
That teases a smile from Beck’s lips as he pats his face with his towel. “It’s weird, hearing Renegades and knowing I’m one of them now.”
“I imagine so,” I say. I don’t know how I’d feel if the Hawks traded me. I hope like hell they don’t.
“But then, I wasn’t a Mercenary for long.”
“This is, what, your second year?” I ask as if I don’t know the stats of every gridiron signal-caller in the league.
Beck pauses significantly, and I feel like he’s waiting for me to catch up or catch on. “I was a rookie a year ago,” he adds.
Well, no shit.
But then I focus on what he seems to be trying to tell me without words. He was a rookie when we hooked up that night. Or maybe I’m reading into that because of my bruised ego. Maybe he’s just struggling to adjust to a lot of changes. The least I can do is be a good guy when he’s looking lost.
“And how was your first year?” I ask.
Beck’s eyes stay locked on mine, and I wish those soulful browns didn’t flip my chest. But damn, his eyes just do it for me.
“Good. But hard. That’s the job, though, right?” He sounds like a protégé asking a mentor. Not sure I want to be his quarterback buddy, but maybe that’s all he ever needed from me.
“As long as you win, the fans will love you here,” I say with a smile.
He laughs softly. “Football truths one-oh-one,” he says, and there’s that light side of him that I saw at my house.
“Winning covers all manner of sins,” I add, and I should go. But I don’t make a move to leave quite yet. He doesn’t either.
“It’s a lot,” he says, relieved.
Yup. He’s feeling the pressure of the job. I’m tempted to pat his shoulder, give a reassuring squeeze, or something. But touching him is a bad idea. I’m still too attracted to him, and that frustrates the fuck out of me.
“It sure is,” I say.
Beck swallows and meets my gaze once more. The locker room is quiet. No one is near us. “Jason,” he says like he said my name that night at my house. It comes out so personal, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll ask to kiss me again. I’d probably say yes, even though it’d be a huge mistake.
“Do you want me to find a new gym?” he asks.
Crossing my arms, I stare at him. “Dude. No. We’re all good. Do you really think I’m that kind of a dick?”
“No, no, no,” he says, backpedaling. “I don’t. Not at all. I didn’t want you to think . . .”