Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Me: Suburb, little neighborhood with tons of little kids, I reckon. Haven’t seen any, though, but it’s one of those areas.
Dallas: That sucks.
Me: Eh, could be worse. The house is nice, and the roomie is decent.
If you’re into kindergarten teachers who treat you like one of her unruly students and only have romance novels on their bookshelves. And who won’t cook meals for you because they claim you’re an adult and should do it yourself.
Dallas: Yeah, guess it could be worse. You could be at home with the paps camped outside your house—wouldn’t be able to take a piss then, either.
True. If I was at home in my New York penthouse apartment, I would be trapped inside too once the media got buzz, and going anywhere would be a nightmare.
Me: What’s up?
Dallas: Ma wanted me to text you to remind you about next week.
Me: What’s next week?
Dallas: Boys and I move in. She’s sick of us being around the house and wants us at school a few days early. Twins are driving her fucking mental.
Dallas: You gonna be around to help us?
My brothers, Dallas, Drew and Drake (the twins)—are going to be attending the university in Madison, Wisconsin—a few short hours from where I’m staying with Posey.
Dallas has a big ole pickup truck, so they’ll be driving with a rented trailer but wanted my help moving their shit into the off-campus house I bought when Dallas was a freshman.
And before you say anything, yes—there are four of us, and yes, all our first names begin with the letter D, something our pops wanted when we were born.
And yes, we all play football.
Kind of hard not to when it’s in your blood, and when, from the time you could walk, you had a football in your hand. When your dad ran drills with you before you could talk. When the expectation that you were going to follow in his footsteps was so high…you didn’t dare play any other sports.
No baseball leagues, no hockey.
Breathe.
Eat.
Football.
No clubs, no hobbies—just football.
It wasn’t just the way it was growing up in Texas—that was the way it was in the Colter household, being raised by a dad who was a legendary sports figure. He hired us trainers, coaches, and coached us himself.
It sucked.
But I’m the man I am today because of him. May he rest in peace.
I make a sign of the cross before texting my baby brother back.
He’s a good kid—a sophomore—another Colter living in the shadow of the two men who came before him; our pops and me, and some days I feel sorry for the kid.
The twins too, but they’re a different breed than I am, giving less fucks than I ever did. Their talent comes naturally, so they never have to work as hard.
The Colter Twins are famous in our small town, and they’re as famous on their college campus as they will if they decide to go pro.
The media and the teams will eat that shit up and make them a fortune—if they don’t fuck it up.
Me: Yeah, I’ll be meeting you there. Just let me know the address and what day you plan on arriving.
Dallas: Cool
Me: Yipee ki ya….
Dallas: …Motherfucker
Me: Do me a favor and don’t tell any of your little buddies I’ll be in town.
Dallas: None of my buddies are little.
Me: You know what I mean…
Dallas: Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean.
Dallas: You’re feeding us, yeah?
I roll my eyes. What is it with guys and food?
Me: Sure, we can order food or something.
Dallas: Cool.
Me: luv ya, brother
Dallas: love you to
He uses the wrong spelling of ‘to,’ and I’m tempted to correct him, but instead, I raise the book.
And start from the beginning because I missed so much, all the details, trying to piece together what I don’t know because I never read the books that led to this one. Like this story.
Our heroine, Clara, has snuck off to a cyprian ball (a scandalous, taboo ball where salacious things were rumored to happen and which I had to Google the definition of) with her sister, dressed in a wig and donning a masquerade mask, locking eyes with a handsome stranger (also wearing a mask).
A mask?
“How does she know she’s attracted ta him if he’s wearing a damn mask? He could be ugly as fuck,” I mumble.
I read on.
Clara and the man dance, and he warns her off.
I roll my eyes. “Of course he does. He knows if he tells her not to come back, she’ll come back.”
So predictable.
Clara walks right into his trap and goes back the following night, where things get hot and heavy, and WHOA. They almost bang!
I flip the cover to study it; the pose of the couple on the front—her on the ground looking back up at him, he a strapping blond dude with a ripped chest and ripped muscles, hand across her collarbone.