Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I feel good. I’ve never been in such good shape in my life, and I’m so fucking ready for the season to start. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m going to show this team and everyone else why I deserve to be the guy who leads them to victory.
My head is high, and I can’t stop the smile on my lips as I strip down, turn on and step into the cold spray of the shower. My muscles tense for a moment but relax a second later. I press my palms to the cool tile and let the water wash the sweat off my skin before turning to lean my shoulders against the tile.
My eyes close, and a laugh escapes. Man, this year is bound to be epic. My best friends and I are going to do everything we talked about at twelve years old: start together on a D1 college football field in front of hundreds of thousands of screaming fans, be it in person or on TV. Avix University is top tier, the record Noah led us to the last few years earning us that prime-time spot.
Now it’s my turn.
I’m the man they’ll lean on.
The crowd will wear my number proudly on their chests.
I need to get Pretty Little a season pass.
My face falls instantly.
With jerky movements, I wash up, get out, and head back to my locker. Digging into my bag, I yank on a fresh pair of boxers and some navy Avix U sweatpants. My phone is in my hands in seconds, my frown doubling as I glance down at the screen.
Zero missed calls, no new messages.
I drop onto the bench seat, opening up my and Payton’s message thread, nothing but blue bubbled texts for pages and pages, dating back to May, the newest the one I sent this morning.
It wasn’t over the top, and I wasn’t prying. Neither was the one I sent last night when I was alone in my room.
Me: I’m back on campus.
Me: Good morning. Tell Little D hi for me.
With a sigh, I back out, checking the rest of my notifications and finding Cameron posted a picture on Instagram this morning. I click on the icon, and the image appears. I jerk upright, glaring at the screen.
It’s a photo of all the girls at the café down the road from the beach house. They probably walked there like we all used to. Cameron is taking the shot, Mia and her on one side of the table, Lolli, Ari…and Payton on the other. And at the end of the table is one of those old wooden high chairs, my little man perched right inside it, a blanket tucked against his back. He’s smiling, too, his fingers stuck halfway in his mouth, and my eyes soften at the sight.
He’s so damn adorable, his dark curls all over the place and hanging over his forehead. I scroll to the next picture, and a weighted warmth falls on my chest. He’s got the little football Lolli bought him in his hand, my signature right there in the shot as he tucks it to his chest.
Maybe the little man will be a running back when he gets older.
The next shot is taken from high above, showing only their hands and the plates they ordered. A scowl pulls at my brows, and I tug the screen closer. Payton’s pretty pink painted fingernails are delicately placed at the edge of her plate—which is nothing more than a pile of fruit. That’s not what has my blood pressure rising, though. It’s the phone that’s sitting right beside her on the table.
The phone that she would have seen my message on last night or woke to this morning.
That she’s seen and ignored all my messages and calls on for months now.
After everything that happened between us.
And then even after all that, when she stopped ignoring me and broke her silence on the Fourth.
After she gave in again and let me hold her on the dance floor four nights ago.
I swallow, my leg bouncing anxiously.
She’s letting me go, I know it. I fucking feel it, and it…hurts.
I don’t want to do this.
I can’t fucking do this.
My mind is screaming, my adrenaline spiking, and it’s too much.
I need to clear my head. Again.
Shoving my earbuds in, I start a random playlist, toss my shit in my bag, and throw it over my shoulder. I shove through the door of the school gym dedicated to athletes alone and move over to the treadmill.
I hop on, hit the incline, and turn the thing to max speed.
System of a Down screams angrily in my ears, and I bob my head, pumping my arms as if trying to scale a fucking mountain that seems to double its height every fucking time I reach the top.