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)
“Did you see the pictures?”
“The photo shoot ones?
“They just sent them.”
“No. How do they look?”
“I just got them. You’re copied.” Then he drops his voice, going a little flirty. “They look good.”
I frown, worried. “Good as in . . .?”
Shaking his head, he fights off a smile. “Good as in . . . no one can tell . . .”
He’s inviting me to finish, and I jump on that opportunity so fast. “. . . that we spent the night together?”
“Yeah. That,” he says, a little breathy.
I should not talk to him like this, but I’m getting a thrill out of how we tease at our secret. I just hope no one can tell I’m into this guy.
Someone booms from behind me: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I straighten, recognizing Xavier’s voice. Is my teammate going to lay into me for talking to Beck?
I slap on my game-day armor, then spin around to face the X-Man, who stares back, his phone in his hand like he can’t believe the evidence either.
“This is bullshit,” Xavier shouts, enraged. The fearsome player holds his arms wide, staring at me, then Beck. “I can’t fucking believe my eyes.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I scramble for a plausible cover-up by focusing on the facts. No one has ever seen us touch. No one saw the stairwell kiss. No one saw him leave my house.
I’m unsure of how to even begin my defense, but I give it my best shot. “We—”
“I lost my streak.”
I swallow my denial in one gulp. “What streak?”
Xavier fake sobs. “My Wordle streak. Dammit. I had a sixty-eight-day streak,” he says, then walks to the glass wall of the gym and bangs his head against the window. “I wanted sixty-nine,” he says forlornly.
I breathe a city-wide sigh of relief that turns into a laugh. When I steal a glance at Beck, he’s laughing too.
“Tacit, dude. Tacit,” Beck says.
Xavier glares at the other quarterback, red clouds of rage billowing from his eyes. “I know that now. Thank you very much.”
Beck shrugs. “My streak is ten months.”
Xavier growls. “You think that makes me like you?”
Beck smiles wider, shaking his head. “No, but the Renegades intend to leave you in the dust come February, so I figure there’s already no love lost.”
Xavier rolls his eyes, unintimidated, but Beck saunters into the gym like a badass motherfucker.
A few minutes later, I’m in the gym too, ready to pump iron. I fill my water bottle and head to the weights to join Nate. Along the way, I open my texts and send a quick one to Beck.
Jason: Damn, that was hot.
Beck: My Wordle streak or my mic drop?
Jason: Both, you cocky mofo. You’re on fire today.
Beck: It’s the residual effect of those multiples from Monday night. By the way, what did you think of the pics?
I should check them out and give my approval too. Weaving past the Nautilus machines, I click over to my email and open them. Damn, number nine is so deliciously broody. So inscrutable on the surface. But I feel like I know some of the secrets behind those dark eyes. The pics are perfect for the press shots.
When I look up from the screen, Nate’s stretching his hammies next to a weight bench. “Let me guess. Someone sent you a cat video?”
“Yes, Nate. I’m smiling at a cat falling off a windowsill meme,” I say. Then as I assess the field here at the gym, I call an audible. The gang’s all here—Nate, Xavier, Orlando, and Devon from the Hawks with Beck, Carter, Hayden, and Isaiah from the Renegades. The best way to act like you have nothing to hide is . . . to have nothing to hide. I shove the pic on my phone at Nate. “It’s the press shot for Monday Morning Quarterback. Reese is asking for my approval.”
“Ooh, hold on! I need to give my approval too.” Carter racks the dumbbells he was lifting and joins us, pulling Beck over, so he’s right next to me. “I want to make sure my QB looks better,” Carter adds.
“Won’t happen,” Nate says.
“Number Fourteen is tougher too,” adds Xavier, who’s swaggered over to join the crowd checking out the publicity shots on my phone, but Beck and I are front and center. I’m shoulder to shoulder with my rival again, catching those final notes of his aftershave, his scruffy jaw too damn close, making me a little dizzy.
Nate points to one of the three options Reese sent. “What if we Photoshop in a cartoon bubble around Beck’s mouth that says . . . Hawks rule?”
“Just try it,” Beck says with a snort, but before getting another word in, Carter clears his throat and shows off his Super Bowl ring from earlier this year. Hayden goes next, then Isaiah.
Carter points at Nate, Orlando, and me. “How many of you have one of these babies?”