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)
“I’m glad I called then,” he says, so warmly I want to curl up in his voice.
Why is it so easy to open up to my rival? I wish I could hate him, but I can’t because I like him too much. “There’s one thing I want, though.”
“Name it.”
I smile again. “Don’t go easy on me tomorrow.”
“I never fucking would.”
Jason is true to his word.
The next morning, he stares at me fiercely across the studio soundboard. It’s time for the two-minute warning. “You see, Cafferty,” he says, “you’ve got to do this thing where you move the football. That’s the basic goal of the game.”
I hate the dig, and I love it. It’s what I wanted from him. “I’m making a mental note,” I say.
I lost. I have to eat some humble pie.
The show ends, and I’m elated to realize I not only survived, but I thrived. So elated, I want to push Jason against the stairwell wall and kiss the breath out of him.
I don’t, of course.
But I do leave with him. Head into the elevator with him. Get out on the garage level with him.
He points his phone at his car, taps the screen, then gives me a curious look. “You need a ride again?”
I want one, but I don’t need one. I point to a black BMW a few cars past his. “That’s mine now.”
“Nice wheels,” he says. Then, before he gets in his car, he gives me a long look.
I read everything into it—I want you in my car again, I want you in my bed again, I want you again.
And I want to tell him, too, why I got this car. But I don’t. It’s silly, and it’d reveal my foolish hope for an invitation to his home.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, then I get in my car and drive away.
The following Sunday, my game returns to awesome.
The second I hit the field, exhilaration rushes through me. There’s a sense that this—this grass, this moment, this fifty-yard-line—is where I’m meant to be.
I start the game off right with a play fake. The defense chases our running back, but oops! He doesn’t have the ball because I gunned it to the tight end, who tears down the field.
Like that, I set the rhythm. We play tight and smart, and we keep Miami on their toes and out of sorts.
Just the way I like it.
When the clock runs out, the Renegades win, making our record four and one. Jason’s Sunday must have sucked, though. The Hawks lose, and his team’s record is three and two.
He’s been down this road before, so I doubt he needs to talk it out like I did last week. Still, I text him that night, just in case. Also, I like seeing his name on my phone. I’m selfish like that.
Streaker: Hey, I won’t go easy on you tomorrow.
King of the Couch: You better fucking not.
Streaker: You hanging in there?
King of the Couch: Coach ripped us all new ones, but I’ll live.
Streaker: Ouch. That’s no fun.
King of the Couch: It is what it is. Tell me something non-football-y.
Hmm, what can I say to take his mind off the loss?
Streaker: Here you go: I realized I never told you what I thought of your cuddling.
King of the Couch: Oh, so I’m getting a belated cuddling review?
Streaker: If you want it.
King of the Couch: I do. Wait, do I?
Streaker: You do. Since I liked it.
King of the Couch: Liked? You liked it? That’s all?
Streaker: That’s not enough for you?
King of the Couch: I’m a greedy mofo.
Streaker: You are. Fine, I give you a nine.
King of the Couch: I deserve a ten.
Streaker: You can’t get a ten the first time.
King of the Couch: I’ll have to remember that.
A little over a week later, as the Renegades finish practice on a Wednesday morning, Wilder, the team’s owner, appears on the field. From the way he seems to be everywhere, I suspect he can teleport. Ian’s beside him, though I’m sure he had to walk. No teleporting for the PR guy.
The pair meets me as I’m headed toward the tunnel to the locker rooms. “The Monday Morning Quarterback ratings are terrific,” Wilder says.
He strides across the practice field like he owns it—which he does. “We’re very pleased, indeed. Now, I have another opportunity for you. Every year, the pro teams in San Francisco work together on an event called the Ultimate Player Auction. It’s a fundraiser in December for the Children’s Hospital, and it’s near and dear to my heart.”
I can read between the lines. I need to say yes to the auction.
“It’s a win a ‘date’ with a player thing,” Ian explains, and I suspect he’s here, so I don’t feel pressured. But I do feel pressure, and I’m fine with it.
“Feel free to say no, of course, but I’d like to personally invite you if you’d want to participate,” Wilder says, all smooth as silk. “Ian can give you details.”