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)
Instead, he waits for me to approach, his expression slightly rueful. When I’m a few feet away, he says stiffly, “Hey, McKay.”
I stop. “What’s up?”
He gestures in the direction of the briefing room. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for that back there. You didn’t have to help me, but I appreciate it.”
“No biggie,” I say, relieved he’s saying thanks rather than fuck off, you presumptuous asshole. “Your first presser?”
“That obvious?” He rolls his eyes. But not at me or the question. It’s one hundred percent self-directed.
I’m glad I did what I did. “You’ll get there. It takes time.”
He sighs and drags a hand through his messy hair. “Thanks, man. That was . . . cool. I needed it.”
Glad we’re good. I gesture toward the doorway. “I’ll see you around.”
But Beck doesn’t make a move to leave. He scrubs a hand across his jaw as if he wants to say something else. Finally, he does. “I grew up with dogs. I trained our Border Collie to high-five, play hide-and-seek, salute, and even sit quietly in a room when we had guests over. I don’t know why it’s hard to just say that.”
Ah, hell. I feel for the rookie. I was in his spot a few years ago. It can be suffocating—the pressure to step into the role of the team leader. No wonder he’s been all over the place today. “I’m throwing a barbecue this afternoon. Guess I’m in a charitable frame of mind because I invited some Mercenaries too. I’ll make sure everyone is gone well before curfew. You’re welcome to join.”
His eyes light up. “We’re allowed?”
An evening away from the team hotel is a big deal. Teams are seriously strict about what players do the night before a game. But my shindig is a late afternoon event. “Since it’s a charity game, the teams have relaxed the rules a little. You can come.”
Beck gives a flicker of a smile. “Thanks. That’d be great. What’s your address?”
“108—” I begin, then stop. No way his recall is that good. “Do you want me to text it to you?”
“I have a photographic memory,” Beck says with all the confidence he lacked at the podium.
Okaaaay. I give him the rest of my addy.
He taps his temple then repeats it back to me like a showoff. “It’ll be right up here with the playbook.”
I’m a little thrown for the first time today, but I cover it up with a laugh. “Cool. See you later.” I turn toward the door, then remember some of the guys are bringing dates. “Bring a friend if you want. Or an SO – significant other.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
Then I turn and leave, wondering if those last words mean he’s bringing a girlfriend. Or a guy friend.
Wondering, too, why I care.
He’s attractive, sure, but I didn’t even like him at first. But here in the hallway, he’s kind of opened up, admitted he feels awkward, and that vulnerability is sort of endearing. Maybe that’s why I’m a little curious if he’s gay or single.
Except, I really shouldn’t care.
3
ONE OF THOSE KITCHEN PEOPLE
Beck
You can learn to teach a dog to high-five from a YouTube tutorial. You can figure out how to tie a bow tie with a video. Hell, you can even learn how to throw a football in a few simple steps courtesy of an amateur coach on Instagram.
But fuck if there’s anything useful on the Internet about how to act when your crush invites you to his home, where you’ll be surrounded by his and your teammates.
It’s a quandary. But I’m not going to the barbecue to hit on Jason. I’m going because I desperately need a favor, and Jason McKay’s the only one I can ask.
After I change into shorts and a T-shirt at the team hotel, I stop by the nearest Whole Foods on my way to Pacific Heights. I text my friend Rachel as I cruise the aisles. What do you bring to a last-minute barbecue?
She replies quickly. You can never go wrong with potato salad. Also, who the hell invited you to anything?
I roll my eyes and type, Shocking, I know.
Um, you didn’t answer me.
I reply, Don’t read anything into it, Rachel. Just another football player.
Then I go to the deli counter and ask for a pound of some gourmet salad with purple potatoes and fancy pickles. No idea if Jason likes potato salad.
Why would you know, dipshit?
Maybe I should bring beer. That’s what you can never go wrong with—beer. It’s too late to kibosh the salad, but when the woman at the deli counter hands me the tub, I say thanks then head to the beer aisle.
I can bring both beer and salad, right? That’s not too much, is it? I suppose I could ask the Internet, but the World Wide Web has already proven useless today.