Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Ah, hell. Poor Patrick’s about to get a grilling from his woman. Over me. I need to tell them. Not him.
“I met someone. I was really into her. And I had a few bad games because she was all I could think about.”
The confession is full of remembered embarrassment over how I played. Brooke frowns, but then she erases it, her face a tabula rasa.
“But it’s not the same,” I say quickly.
Except, what if this situation is the same? What if I can’t balance football and romance?
“And you missed a meeting the other morning?” Brooke asks, reminding me of yet another fuckup this past week.
I look away, ashamed over that too. “Yeah, but I rescheduled with Paul, so it’s all good.”
Patrick clears his throat and points to the interior of the café. “I’m going to grab a coffee.”
“Me too,” Cara says.
Once they’re inside, Brooke meets my gaze and says gently, “So there have been other times when you struggled to balance football and dating?”
I swallow uncomfortably. If I say yes, I’ll sound like I don’t have my shit together. But then, maybe I don’t. I stay quiet.
“Senior year of college is an important time,” she adds, her tone full of understanding. “With recruiting and the draft and such.”
“That’s true,” I admit, recalling those terrible early season games and my worries that I was blowing my shot at the pros.
“And you probably stressed about whether it would affect your chances in the draft,” she says, kind and thoughtful, getting me too well.
I look away, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck. “Yeah, I did.”
“And did you break it off with her?” she asks, still soft and caring.
I wince but mumble a yes.
“And did your game improve?”
Grimacing, I bite out a yes again.
I hate that yes.
Hate it so fucking much.
She draws a deep breath then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Would it help if maybe we took a week off? Or perhaps more? I don’t want this to get you down.”
No! God, no. Not at all.
Except…what if I’m terrible at balancing everything? What if I lost my focus? What if I can’t manage it all?
“I really don’t want to,” I say heavy and resigned because I probably should say yes. “But…”
She purses her lips. “But maybe it’s for the best?”
I grimace. Damn, she has more guts than I do.
More insight too.
No way can this be the answer. Except the evidence adds up. I thought so last night, but I didn’t want to put the clues together. Now, I don’t know what else to think.
“Maybe it is best,” I say, wishing that weren’t the answer, but fearing it is. “But what about the media tour?”
“Drew,” she says, her voice soft but her tone firm. “Maybe you’re doing too much. You say yes to everything. You do all these charity events, which is amazing. You do all these interviews. But perhaps you’re spreading yourself too thin. I can talk to Stephen, and we can find someone else. Another player. Maybe Clements.”
My shoulders relax, and I hate that I want that so much. But I do. That would be a load off.
“You wouldn’t mind?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll take care of it. You just focus on football.”
“And next week?” I’m hopeful I can see her again, but is that even fair to ask? Does that make me a fair-weather boyfriend?
No, I can’t ask her to date again next week. I need to get my shit together before I can fully commit.
“Focus on this week,” she says, echoing my thoughts, more caring than I deserve. “That’s all you should concentrate on.”
It sounds like a good plan. But it also sounds like we just put our romance on ice.
23
HIS BAD LUCK CHARM
Brooke
When I walk down the hall in the office an hour later, I get the sense that my co-workers are whispering about me again.
But not for long, since Felipe says out loud, “Did you make him feel better this morning?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping at his desk.
“Well, there was that cute pic of you two having coffee a little while ago. You were holding his hand,” he says, like Drew and I are the height of adorbs. He pops up from his desk, phone in hand, and swings it my way. A social media feed from MercenaryFanGirl features a shot of me holding Drew’s hand this morning.
The back of my neck prickles. We were seen an hour ago while we were, for all intents and purposes, breaking up.
Only this fan has no clue what really went down.
My stomach churns with the utter wrongness of the caption. QB’s GF comforts him after yesterday’s tough loss.
Yeah, some comfort I gave. More like I freed him from his obligation.
I was his albatross. His bad luck charm.
“Thanks for sharing,” I say blandly to Felipe, then stare at my shoes as I walk to my office, hoping to avoid any more run-ins.