Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
The details are vague, but then again, Jensen cosigned the email, and he has a vendetta against words, so…
Shane and I step out of our respective shower stalls, towels wrapped around our waists. The Briar facilities are a massive upgrade from Eastwood. First and foremost, the smell. As in, it’s almost nonexistent thanks to Briar’s unrivaled air filtration system. At Eastwood, it was like stepping into an old sock factory every time you walked into the locker room. The benches left wood splinters in your ass, and the showers were mildewy. If you forgot your shower shoes, you’d have a lot more than athlete’s foot to worry about. You’d risk getting your feet amputated from some flesh-eating disease.
“I’m just saying,” Shane says as we head back to the main room to change. “I’m so tired of chicks asking for pictures of my dick.” He heaves a sigh of exhaustion. “It’s a lot of effort to take all those photos.”
“Radical idea, but maybe just do it once and keep sending the same one?” Beckett suggests.
“Ha. Lazy Lance over here. That’s taking the easy way out.” Shane flops on the bench to roll on his socks. “Women need to feel special. If she requests a dick pic, she gets her own personal one, tailored just for her.”
“Tailored just for her?” Nick Lattimore echoes. “Bro, like what are you even doing? Crafting a special scene to match each chick’s personality? If she likes wildflowers, do you pose in a meadow?”
Rand keels over with laughter, slapping his knee. “Did you put a teeny pink tutu on it for Lynsey’s photo?”
Shane’s ex was a ballerina, and everyone busts out laughing as we visualize what Nick and Rand described. I even notice a few of the Briar guys fighting laughter. At least before their valiant leader Colson narrows his eyes at them.
The rational part of my brain recognizes how unhealthy this is for a team, these dividing lines that don’t seem to be dissolving.
But the part that hates having this leadership role thrust upon me can’t be bothered to try to fix it.
Once I have my shoes on, I grab my phone from my stall to check for any missed messages. My shoulders tense when I find one from Gigi.
GISELE:
Can you do a session tomorrow night?
I know what she means, but I can’t help the way my dick twitches. He’s fickle and has been around long enough to know that session could refer to so many other things. Dirty things.
I discreetly tap out a response. Colson’s two feet away at his own stall. After the way he dragged Gigi out of my house Friday night, I’d rather not poke the bear.
ME:
Yes. Same time and place?
GISELE:
Yup. I’ll meet you there.
It’s probably not a great idea to agree to this. But our deal is never far from my mind, the hope that she might be able to help me snag that coaching slot. I’d face Colson’s wrath any day of the week for the opportunity to work under Garrett Graham and Jake Connelly.
Although if I’m being honest with myself, Case Colson isn’t the reason I’m hesitant to see Gigi again.
It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself that I don’t want to fuck her brains out.
My stomach sinks when I enter the auditorium to find two dozen chairs arranged in a circle on the stage. Coach Jensen stands up there flanked by a man and woman in their midforties who look like the nauseating parents from a Disney Channel show. They vaguely resemble each other, though, so I think they might be siblings. They’re both in khakis and matching pastel shirts, hers green, his pink, although I suspect he’d call it salmon.
“Fuck me,” Shane mutters under his breath. “This looks like…”
“Team-building,” I finish, and an honest-to-God shudder runs through me.
Every now and then, a coach gets a bug in his ass. That bug then crawls its way up to his brain and lays an egg that hatches into the big bright idea that his team could benefit from some goddamn bonding experiences.
We suffered through this last season at Eastwood when a new defense coordinator came on board and convinced Coach Evans it would be a fabulous idea to strengthen our team bonds. For three days we were forced to play stupid games and contort our bodies in ungodly human knot exercises.
It was my worst nightmare.
“Everyone have a seat,” barks Jensen.
I can tell as each guy climbs the stage and sits down that they know precisely what this is. And nobody’s happy.
Once we’re all seated, Coach Jensen confirms our fears.
“Miss Delmont from the public relations department has signed us up for a team-building course that will run every Monday for the next six weeks.”
Our goalie, Joe Kurth, looks like he’s going to throw up. He leans forward in his chair and drops his face in his hands.