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)
Her face softens, and then a large smile blooms across her pillowed lips.
“What?”
“I was sitting here wondering what you were going to say after I told you, and the conversation we had in my head went a lot like this.”
A low chuckle leaves me, and I sit back when she reaches for her fork and stabs into the ice-cold flapjacks, cutting off and taking a giant bite. I watch her every move, a smile tipping my lips.
“Nice to know I’m predictable,” I tease, unable to find the strength to look away from the girl and not wanting to regardless.
“Not predictable.” She speaks low, her eyes coming back to mine. “Just…Mason,” she says as if it explains it all. She looks out the window then, the sun having officially risen.
I raise a dark brow, and when an airy laugh leaves her, I feel like I’m fucking flying.
She’s feeling a little better, and I had a hand in that. Me.
From there, the conversation switches to random topics, and I sit back, indulging her every question, happy to be the center of the distraction she’s after.
It’s not until we’re parked outside Nate’s that her spirit dims again. It’s in the way she hesitates in the passenger seat, staring at the porch of the beach house in heavy defeat.
“I never got to tell him,” she whispers suddenly, her chest expanded with a strangled breath. “Deaton died not knowing what I was going to do.”
“He knew.” Her eyes come to mine, and I lean closer. “He loved you, Payton.” I hold her gaze steadily, and her lips tremble through a broken smile. “He knew.”
Slowly, she nods, and her muscles ease before my eyes, as if reassurance from my lips is enough to help put her mind at ease, if only for a little while. “Thanks, Mase. You’re a good friend.”
What if I want to be more?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mason
Now, August
Arms crossed, fingers digging into my biceps, I glare at the little fucker on the field.
Originally, I had agreed with Coach’s plan to use the second string to start us out. Toss them out there, throw off the opposing team, let them think they have a shot for a quarter of a quarter, and then make the swap. Show them what we really got and crush their little dreams of leaving here with the victory.
Now I wish I would have pushed back, because of course this dickhead hits the field in my position and does what he damn well pleases, game plan be damned.
The plan called for a pick play, and his receivers executed perfectly, feet flying forward, one putting himself in the defender’s path, leaving the other wide open, but what does the punk do?
He tucked and ran, doing all he could to show off his twinkle toes. He cut man after man, not only picking up the first down but an extra six yards on top of it.
The crowd cheered, he got hyped, and Coach tore into him from the sidelines. Alister looked our way with a nod, threw out some excuse he knew we couldn’t hear, took the next play call, and went back into the huddle.
Next play, same thing, but this time, instead of juking the outside linebacker who came down on a blitz, flying right toward him, he leapt into the air, coming down over his head. He gained three more yards.
Everyone went wild that time, and instead of tuning them out and focusing on the task at hand, the freshman fame chaser turned to face them, threw his hands up, and begged for more.
He’s a fool, and a move like that will end his career before it even begins.
Jump too low, too late, or too high, you risk getting flipped in the air and landing wrong. Break your wrist or injure your arm for a bit of crowd chasing, and it’ll be game over.
Coach Rogan and I look at each other at the same time, both shaking our heads. The clock ticks down, and finally, it’s time. I tug my helmet on and get ready to take my position. Because it is my position.
All eleven of our boys on the field jog off, the first-string crew jogging on for the first game of the season.
Alister slams his shoulder into mine as he passes, and our glares meet. “Let’s see if they like you half as much as they like me,” the smiling bastard spits.
“Don’t worry, second string.” I smirk, snapping my chin strap. “They won’t see you enough to like you.”
Alister’s face falls, and I spin, laughing to myself as I join my team on the field, and the second my feet plant on the turf, all thoughts of him fall away.
This is it.
I look across my teammates’ faces, each of us nodding, all of them waiting for my instruction, eager to follow my lead, to take themselves where I need them and make the play happen. The air is charged, and call me Electro, because I’m powered the fuck up.