Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Quickly scanning through the welcome pack, I find my locker number with a padlock, a map of the school, and my class schedule. Then pulling them out of the pack, I dump the rest of the shit in the trash and make my way to my locker.
I quickly set up my lock code, more than aware that at some point, I’m going to have to change it, especially considering it’s 0228—Zoey’s birthday, February 28. And to think I just made a point that I wanted nothing to do with her. Ironic really.
I was better off without you.
Fuck, those words keep circling my mind. Why the hell do they hurt so much? She’s lying. She has to be. I could see it in her eyes. She lost half of herself when I walked away, and she never got it back. She isn’t better off without me; she just wishes she was.
After dumping my shit in my locker and programming the number into my phone, knowing damn well I’m going to forget which of these bastards is mine, I scan over the map, trying to figure out where I can find Coach Martin.
Students filter in through the doors, and to avoid the attention of being the shiny new toy for as long as possible, I piss off down the hall, pushing through the back doors and out to the football field.
As I cut across the school, I can’t help but glance over the underwhelming field. I’ve been at the best private schools Arizona has to offer for the past three years. They have state-of-the-art training facilities for their students, but this—a bare field with a shitty goalpost at either end—is what you get when you enroll at a public school.
Telling myself that a shitty field is better than no field at all, I barge through the locker rooms and start my search for the coach’s office. Finding it right where I expect it to be, I go to knock on the door when I hear shuffling coming from the storeroom directly beside Coach Martin’s office.
Taking another few steps, I find the coach buried deep in equipment, trying to get everything organized and set up for his team. He turns just as I go to knock, and as my hand falls away, he jumps, not having expected anyone to creep up on him.
“Uh, can I help you?” he grunts, moving past me to dump the equipment in the main part of the locker room, freeing up his hands.
“I’m Noah Ryan,” I tell him. “I’m starting at East View today.”
Recognition flashes in his eyes. “Noah Ryan, huh?” he grunts. “And what do you want with me?”
I gape at him for a minute. This isn’t exactly how I thought this conversation would go. Every other coach I’ve trained with has almost come in their pants at the mere thought of having me on their team. “I’m hoping to secure a spot on the team, Coach,” I say, just in case I mistook his recognition for idiocy.
“I get that,” he says. “But I also get that you lit your principal’s office on fire barely forty-eight hours ago and were kicked out of St. Michael’s before the school year could even commence. You might be a star on the field, and I’m sure talent like yours could take the Mambas to new heights, but I’m not willing to jeopardize the integrity of my team for a lost cause such as yourself.”
Fuck.
He steps around me, opens his office door, then turns back to me with a tight smile. “Thanks for coming by. It was good to finally put a face to the name,” he says, glancing at his watch. “You best get going. School starts in three minutes.”
The fuck just happened?
“Umm . . . respectfully, Coach, but that’s bullshit,” I say, refusing to take no for an answer, hovering in the doorway of his office. “I’m the best fucking quarterback in the state, and between you and me, we both know your job is riding on your performance this year. You need me just as much as I need you.”
“I don’t need shit from an overprivileged, no-good kid who has no respect for his sport, his peers, or for his own education. I’m sorry, Noah, but the answer is no,” he tells me. “Perhaps East View isn’t the right fit for you.”
“Please, Coach,” I say, not above getting on my fucking knees and begging. “I don’t think you understand just how badly I need this. East View is my last chance. If I can’t play here, I don’t play at all.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares at me, reading the desperation in my eyes.
“Football is all I have,” I continue, letting him see just a hint of the darkness living within me. “If I don’t have this . . . I don’t know where I’ll be. I need this.”