Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
My heart rate spikes dangerously as I cross the lot. I never let myself think about contract stuff. I am compartmentalized all the way. But now I’m thinking about it—about staying here for a long time. Maybe even with her. “Yeah?”
I sound more excited than I want to. I don’t like to show too many emotions with him. He’d probably want me to regulate those too.
But my dad sounds excited as well. “All that work you’ve done—your discipline, your training, your conditioning—is paying off. I’ll keep studying your opponents. We’re going to make this happen.” I’m at the players’ entrance so I should go, but then he says, “And I’ve got interest in another endorsement deal. A health-food chain. Perfect, right?”
“It is,” I say. And truly, it is. There’s no sarcasm in my tone. I appreciate the hell out of what he does to make my future possible.
And ideally, not dark.
I say goodbye, but as I go inside, I’m not thinking of hockey or healthy food. I’m wishing it were easy for Josie to get these perks. To land the sort of work she loves as easily as a pro athlete does. Then, a traitorous thought crops up. An endorsement deal would more than cover her expenses. I could take care of her. I could make a future for us possible.
But I groan privately.
I can’t buy her to stay. She wouldn’t want that. And it’s too soon. I’d really better not get distracted. Trouble is, I think about it too much as I get ready to play. When game time nears, I need some new mental tricks to stop thinking about what’s next.
“Shake it off, buddy,” I mutter as I lace up.
And I do my damnedest to do just that during the game.
That night we lose, and it sucks. My gameplay is weak. I miss shots. I miss passes. And I can’t do a damn thing with the tips from my dad or the one from Christian. I’d be an idiot if I pretended I didn’t know why.
I was in my head tonight.
When I get home, I’ve got to face this mess my brain is making.
Overcome a fear.
I did it the night at the bookstore when I told her about my dyslexia. I can tell her this one too—that I’m afraid we won’t last when she leaves. And I want her to stay.
But once I’m upstairs, she’s asleep already, and I can’t bring myself to wake her up. Especially since she’s in my bed.
Not hers.
And I fucking love that she came upstairs and made herself right at home where she belongs—with me.
My heart squeezes in my chest as I stare at her, her chestnut hair spilled out on a pillow, her black-and-white glasses on my nightstand, a library book next to them. That’s my girl. I lean against the wall and rub my sternum, like I can ease the ache I feel when I look at her. But it won’t go away.
When she shifts, I hold my breath, hoping she’ll rouse. Please wake up, baby.
But she sighs softly, flips to her side, and slides deeper into slumber.
Enough.
I turn away, shed my clothes in the closet, then get ready for bed. When I slide under the covers, she stirs, blinking her eyes open. She smiles softly. “Rough game,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Rough because I was in my head too much. Rough because I was distracted. I’m never distracted. I try to shake it off since tomorrow we leave for a road trip.
But I can’t let the thoughts go. They eat away at me all night, and in the morning too as she moves around downstairs, getting ready for work. I grab my travel bag and head to her room, where she’s zipping up a skirt that I want to unzip.
Focus.
I set an arm against the doorframe, then say, “Hey.”
She spins around, eyes soft. “Hey.”
I don’t mince words. “What if you stayed? Like got a job extension? Is that even an option?” I sound reckless, but I’m, evidently, okay with that.
She smiles faintly, giving me a glimmer of hope. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while, but I’ve been trying for one.”
Holy shit. She’s on the same wavelength as I am. I feel like I’m made of sunshine. I feel like I could fucking dance, and I hate dancing. “You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”
But I’m not mad. I’m elated.
“I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Or seem clingy or anything,” she says.
“Presume. Cling,” I command.
“I like it here. It’d be great to stay.” But her upbeat expression falters a second later. “It’s hard though,” she says, her lips thinning, her gaze worried. “Thalia doesn’t think they have the budget to keep me. But I applied for another grant with the foundation that paid for me to be here in the first place.”