Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Last night was… well, it was good. I hung out with Mia, of course, and watched the game.” She shrugs and looks out the window. Easing my foot onto the gas, I get the truck up to speed before I turn the cruise control on.
“How was the party?” I grit my teeth as I speak. I don’t even want to know the answer, but curiosity has gotten the best of me.
“Oh, that…” Even though I can’t see her face, I’d bet anything that she is smiling. “We didn’t actually go. I was too tired.” When she turns in her seat, I glance over at her, and find a smile tugging at her lips.
Fucking trouble, that’s what she is.
Still, I can’t deny that I feel relief knowing she didn’t go. All night, I was thinking about her with someone else, kissing and touching some other fucking guy. I thought about texting and calling her a few times but chickened out, scared of what I would find out.
I knew she wouldn’t sleep with anyone, not of her own doing at least, that didn’t mean some fucker wouldn’t slip something into her drink to get her naked and make her think she wanted to though.
The thought made my blood boil. I literally had to shut my phone off to stop myself from messaging her.
Leaning back in the seat, I sag against the leather, feeling a little less tense. My mood is still shit, but I’m happy she is here, and her scent calms me, makes my thoughts less fuzzy.
“I’m sorry about the game.” She frowns. “That you guys didn’t win.”
I shrug, not really wanting to talk about the shitshow called football. “You have nothing to be sorry about. If anything, it’s my fault.”
“Your fault? You can’t actually think you’re responsible for the entire team’s actions. That’s ridiculous, Cage.” The pitch of her voice changes. Is she angry? Upset that I’m blaming myself for things that were actually my fault?
“I’m not taking blame for the entire team’s actions, just my own. I’m a lineman. My job on the team is to protect the quarterback. I failed to protect him. He was sacked numerous times, causing three fumbles.”
“You scored though,” Blair says, all matter of fact.
I squeeze the steering wheel. “We didn’t win, and that’s all that matters. Scoring doesn’t mean shit if you don’t win.”
Silence blankets the inside of the truck, and I feel a sniggle of remorse for my comment. It came out harsher than I intended.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say on a sigh, “my father’s down my throat over losing, Coach is pissed, and I’m mad at myself for not being as focused on the game as I needed to be. We lost, and I take that loss personally.”
Tucking a few strands of mousy brown hair behind her ears, she peers at me through her glasses. “Everyone calls you a football god. While you’re good or at least seem good at what you do, it’s painfully obvious that you don’t love it.”
The first thing I feel is shock, the second thing is anger, and the third, shame.
I can’t believe she’s watched one game, a few minutes even, and came to that conclusion, and yet people who have been watching me play since high school haven’t been able to. She looked right through me and ripped back my layers like they were a bandage. Ripped me right the fuck open.
I couldn’t tell her that she was right. Instead, I would play along, see how she came to that conclusion. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t think, Cage. I know it. Out on that field, you seemed less like the guy you are here with me right now. You didn’t smile or cheer even when you were scoring.”
“Yeah, ’cause we were losing,” I interrupt defensively.
“And that matters, why? You could’ve been cheering your teammates on, but instead, when you went to the bench, you sat there with your head in your hands like you were defeated.”
“What is that supposed to mean? We were losing, of course, I felt defeated.”
“If you loved football, you would eat, sleep and breathe the sport. Winning or losing, you would be cheering your teammates on. Not moping around, looking like someone kicked your dog, and that there were a thousand other places you would rather be.”
Fuck, she got all of that from one game? She was intuitive, and I didn’t like it. This conversation was cutting too close to the truth, and I don’t know if I will ever be ready to tell her that football was never my dream. That I secretly despised it.
I refuse to let her know how right she is.
“I love football.” The lie rolls off my tongue with ease but leaves a bitterness in its wake. “The game was just shit, and I was stressed and pissed off. I understand you’re trying to help, but don’t psychoanalyze me, Blair. You don’t even know me.”