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)
“The next week, she cleaned the litter,” the man explains. “But if you both win, we do the chores by points.” He couldn’t be happier to share their to-do list system.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out what to say at all. “Cool,” is all I manage.
“That’s awesome, Mitch. Lean into the rivalry,” Jason says, so much smoother than my cool.
The bubbly blonde looks from Jason to me, then back. Can she tell I’m crazy for him? Does she know I’m sleeping with the enemy? I maintain a stony expression so no one can see into my heart.
“Can we get a picture?” the blonde asks. “Then we’ll let you get back to it.”
“Works for me, Cheyenne. We were planning Monday’s segment,” Jason says, then nods to me with a jovial grin. “Right, Beck?”
I’m keenly aware I haven’t opened my mouth to say a word, but cool. He’s done all the talking. “Yes, that’s right,” I say.
Jason stands, and I follow suit.
“You two in the middle,” the blonde says, directing us, and I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy I want to see again and again in secret. I should love this moment, but it’s also a reminder that this is all we’ll ever have.
Moments where we pretend we’re not spending our nights together. When we pretend we’re simply two rivals who rib each other on-air.
The blonde sticks out her arm and snaps a picture. When she’s done, she says, “We’ll let you finish.”
Jason smiles. “Actually, I’ve got practice. But tag me because I was going to take a pic for social myself, but I’d rather repost a fan pic.”
She squeals.
He’s made her day. Probably her whole week.
I know the feeling, Cheyenne.
The couple heads for a booth, but even when they’re gone, the vibe has shifted. The shop is packed now, with customers who came in while we weren’t looking.
Our secret date is officially over.
“I have practice too,” I say, then I drop my cup in the recycling bin, and he does the same.
We make our way through the crowd and out to the street. I glance back, wishing the clock hadn’t run down. “Thanks for the boba,” I say and come to a stop, though that barely scratches the surface of what I want to say.
“I should go, and you have practice too,” he says, then his eyes drift to my lips. He stares a little longer than he should.
For a second, he sways closer, almost, almost, like he’d want to kiss me.
My pulse is beating too fast, and I’m sweating.
Is this what I want? An almost kiss? An almost touch?
Yes, and no.
My heart squeezes, but it hurts this time.
I’m dying to see him again, but how the hell is a guy like me—riddled with anxiety—going to handle the magnitude of a secret affair with my rival quarterback?
“Have a good practice,” I say, wishing I had the guts to speak my true mind.
But I can’t. And I won’t.
More customers pour out of the shop, and Jason’s expression shifts from soft and private to friendly and public. “I’m throwing a Halloween party on Thursday,” he tells me. “Want to come?”
I should be happy about the invite, but I’m disappointed in myself. I came into this date with a goal, and I failed to move the ball.
It’s time to punt and take what I can get.
The reality is simple. Jason can’t be my boyfriend. We can only hang out in public as friendly rivals. And if we keep doing that, sooner or later, someone will catch on.
But I refuse to be in a funk about a party. I might as well enjoy hanging out with friends in my new hometown.
I smile, hoping it looks like I mean it when I say, “Sounds fun.”
Then I go, missing him more than I ever wanted to.
26
FUCK TIMING
Jason
Timing is everything.
In sports, in sex, and in dating.
Out on the gridiron, you’ve got to know when to throw the ball, run it, and hand it off.
On Sunday against the Vegas Pioneers, I fire the ball again and again to Nate, Orlando, and Devon. My badass Hawks connect in every quarter, enough to counteract the pick I throw at the start of the game, and we walk away at the end with another W.
Timing matters on-air too.
On Monday morning, Beck and I are back in the studio, tossing barbs left and right. We lock eyes across the soundboard, Beck almost smiling as he lands a particularly good zinger.
“Pro-tip for ya—maybe don’t always look first where you’re going to throw,” he says.
Like I don’t fucking know that. I made a rookie mistake last night with that interception, telegraphing the play in advance near the start of the game.
But Beck did too, when he fumbled the ball before the half. “Thanks. While we’re at it, the council of quarterbacks sent a memo last week. Not sure you got it, but it said try not to fumble the ball.”