Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
I’m sure any kind of medical field is difficult to get into and graduate from, and I’m proud as fuck of her for doing it, but I wish she’d go back to soccer. She’s too talented to let it go to waste. There’s no age limit to become a doctor. She can go back to it later. Of course, I can’t say that aloud because I’ll sound like the ultimate hypocrite, but my situation is entirely different. She felt forced to quit, and over time, became used to the idea of not playing. I chose to step away from hockey. I hate that she’s shouldering the blame for it, but I made peace with it even before I signed with Florida. The only reason I even played was because I didn’t want to regret not doing it. Three years was enough. Well, it wasn’t, but without her, I felt like I was dying a slow death anyway, so what’s the point? Hockey went from being an escape to becoming a burden. Each time I scored, she was all I could think about. Each time my skates hit the ice became a reminder that it was another moment without her, so I hung them up. I don’t regret it at all.
Lyla snaps out of her trance, reaches for the bubble wrap and tape in the box, and starts to wrap the trophy. By the time she’s finished, it looks safe enough, so I pick it up and set it in the box. She goes back to the bookshelf and scans the books quickly, not taking any, then moves to the drawers. I watch her face as she takes out each item — mostly her baggy shirts — and sets them on the bed.
“Are you taking those?” I ask, my eyes on Lauryn Hill’s face on the one on top.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I can use them as pajamas.”
I smile, glad that she no longer wants to use them as a shield to hide and protect herself. I hate that she felt like she needed to in the first place. I don’t know how women survive in this world, let alone thrive, shouldering all of their burdens and everyone else’s. I couldn’t do it. Next, she starts taking out sweatshirts and placing them into two different piles.
“What pile are you keeping?” I ask.
“This one.” She taps to the right side, where the Lauryn Hill shirt is.
She turns around and keeps taking things out. My muscles tense the moment she brings out the Yale sweatshirt.
“Whose is that?”
Her eyes snap up, as she holds the sweatshirt over herself. “Mine.”
“Did you get it from a guy?”
She stares at me for a long moment, frowning as she tries to recall either where she got it, or how I’d know where she got it. Finally, her jaw drops. I expect her to be upset, and I’m ready for the argument. No way am I letting her keep that shit. I watch her watch me, and suddenly she bursts out laughing. A real, doubled-over laugh that makes my lips pull into a smile and chuckle a little, even though I know she’s laughing at me. She’s so beautiful when she lets herself go like this.
“I cannot believe you,” she says, gasping as she wipes her eyes.
“You went to prom with him.”
This makes her pause for a moment, staring at me like she can’t believe this, before she falls into another fit of laughter. Jesus Christ. I already know she's never going to let me live this one down.
“How?” she asks between laughs. “How can you possibly know that?”
I cock my head. “Come on, Lyla.”
“OH MY GOD.” She loses it again, her laughter making me laugh now. She wipes her face and takes a couple of deep breaths before she calms down enough to stare at me again. “You know what I find crazy?”
“Let me guess.” I shoot her an unamused look. “Me.”
“Well, I think that’s pretty obvious,” she says. “What I think is crazy is that you’re so fucking hot and popular, and you’re this much of a stalker.”
I stare at her. She can’t possibly think I’ve done this before. My entire life, women have thrown themselves at me. I’ve never even had to speak in order to get one to fuck. Really, I can’t think of a time that I initiated something. Maybe that’s arrogant and makes me sound like a douchebag, but it’s the reality of it. I know I’m hot. I’ve always been aware of it. All I have to do is smile, and it’s in the bag. No speaking required on my end to close the deal. The first time I ever even remotely hinted to someone that I’d take them home was to freaking Lyla at the sorority party where I met her. First time ever. And sure, I’d stalked my father a little, but even that wasn’t this extensive. She sets a hand on her hip and waits for me to respond.