Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Because in them, he looks to be in high school.
In fact in a couple, he’s playing soccer.
He’s on the field, wearing a green and white uniform – school colors I presume – and he’s almost mid-air. His one leg is thrust out as if he’s running, the other behind him and folded at the knee, ready to deliver the strike, with both arms spread out for balance.
Someone caught him mid-strike, didn’t they?
And I am so grateful to them because gosh, he’s magnificent.
He’s larger than life here.
Even though he’s frozen in time and space, I can still see the wind whipping his long-ish hair — actually, his hair then was even longer than it was the first time I saw him — and his soccer jersey. I can almost feel his own heaving breaths, his utter focus on the ball, because his mouth is slightly parted and his brows are snapped together.
And then there are a couple where he’s with his team, I think.
They’re all grinning at the camera, holding a trophy, and he’s in the middle of the huddle.
Although I don’t think he wants to be. In the photo at all, I mean.
Because he’s the only one who’s throwing a subdued lopsided smile to the camera, making me think that he’d rather be anywhere else. But I can see the happiness in his blue eyes. I can see that he’s proud of what he’s done, what they have done together as a team.
My heart is pounding in my veins.
Roaring.
Watching him like this. This happy, this handsome. And just looking at him, I get this ache in my chest.
This longing to be there.
In the past where he is.
To be able to actually watch him play, sitting on the bleachers.
And suddenly this longing is so big and deep that I curl my toes.
Because I hear him come into the room.
I hear his footsteps, drawing close.
Closer and closer until he’s behind me.
Until I feel his heat at my spine.
I feel his presence tingling the small of my back. I even feel my hair fluttering, my long, long hair that goes down to my ass, moving slightly, softly, strands rustling together.
As if he might be touching it, rubbing it between his fingers.
Swallowing, I raise my hand to touch one of his pictures, where his teammates are holding a soccer jersey for the camera. “They call you Thorn, don’t they?”
It’s on the jersey that they’re holding.
His jersey with his name on it.
But instead of spelling his last name with an ‘e,’ they simply have ‘Thorn’ in thick black letters.
I feel his breath on the back of my neck and my fingers tremble on his picture. “Yes. Or at least they used to.”
“Used to?”
“In the beginning,” he tells me. “But then my brothers came along and they were Thornes too. So now I’m something else.”
“What?”
His chest expands, or at least I feel it as he says, “The Original Thorn. Just OG.”
I bite my lip harder. “I love it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I stroke his name through the glass frame. “It means that you’re the first of your kind. The first thorn. The original.”
And I can’t help but want to be the first flower.
The original flower.
Just to match him.
“And probably the sharpest,” he murmurs and I feel a pull on my scalp.
Like he tugged on my hair.
Is he… Is he touching my hair?
Touching.
He hasn’t yet.
Except for that one time when he pushed me out of his office with his fingers wrapped around my bicep, he’s always kept his hands away from me.
So I should turn around. I should ask him, but I’m afraid.
I’m afraid that he’ll stop if I do.
So I let him.
I let him touch me — my hair — in secret.
“And so the most protective,” I whisper, feeling warm in my chest. “You look so happy here. So proud and so full of joy.”
I don’t expect him to make a response but he does and it cuts me.
It makes my fingers shiver on that lopsided smile that I’m tracing.
“I was a fool.”
My spine tingles with heat and I very vehemently protest, “No, you weren’t.”
He lets out a puff of breath. “Yeah? You see that guy. Right next to me?” I feel him tipping his chin at him. “He plays for the New York City FC.” Another puff of breath. “He couldn’t dribble for shit. I taught him that. Me. And the guy next to him? He couldn’t even make the team on the first try. I practiced with him for weeks before the second tryouts and voilà. He was on the team. And then he went on to play in college. And I’m still here, teaching things to people. I’ll probably be teaching things to people for a long, long time.”
I want to turn around then.
I want to look at his mature face rather than the teenage one I’m staring at right now. Because the former is more precious to me.