Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
The line doesn’t even allow a first down, and when we get possession, we let the clock wind down till the W flashes on the scoreboard.
We leave the field, smacking palms with the Leopards. When I pass Luke, who didn’t get an ounce of playing time, I drag him in for a hug. “See you soon, buddy. Glad you lost.”
“Fuck you,” he mutters.
“Love you too.”
“Fuck you again,” he says.
“Fly safe.”
Then he waves. “Catch up with you on the flip side.”
In the locker room, the mood is fiery. The guys are amped up. We’ve got a six and two record and a Coach who isn’t ripping us to pieces.
As I toss my sweaty, muddy jersey into the laundry bin, Xavier calls out to the crew. “Spotted Zebra? You men in the mood?”
Orlando shouts a yes.
Elroy gives a salute and says, “I’m there. Because defense shows up.”
Johnson smacks his palm. “We fucking do.”
I toss a knowing glance at Nate. He smiles back. It’s good to see these two getting their mojo back.
Xavier points at Nate, then me. “Team captains better be there.”
Nate shakes his head. “Can’t. Sorry guys.”
He sounds like he has shit to deal with. I need to check-in and see what happened with him and Oliver. For now, I jump on the “no” train, too, yawning. “I need a long, hot shower and to hit the sack. Next time,” I say.
Xavier arches a brow.
Elroy boos and Johnson scoffs.
Nate and I take off, and as we’re walking down the corridor, he shakes his head, smirking.
“What?” I ask.
“Taking a shower?” He sketches air quotes. “They believed you, you dirty little liar.”
“It’s true,” I insist.
He calls bullshit with a long nod. “Right.” Then he nudges my arm. “Have fun in the shower.”
I do my best to ignore the kernel of guilt that wedges into my chest. “How’s everything with Oliver?”
“On a scale of one to not good, it’s a negative fifty,” he says as we reach the stairwell to the stands.
I pat his shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”
Then I put the game and my dirty little lies behind me. I head to find Dad.
I don’t offer him an arm today. He stands on his own—no cast, no crutches, no walking boot, just a proud grin. “Look at your old man,” he says.
“You’re such a show-off. You did this when I came over to watch Privilege two nights ago.”
“And I will continue to remind you I’m capable.”
I laugh. “I know you’re capable, Dad.”
“And I listen too. You’ll be glad to know I only answered a few emails during halftime,” he says as we head up the concrete steps.
I cough under my breath. “Translation—inbox zero.”
He laughs. “You throw masterful touchdowns. I run a tight cookie business,” he says, then squeezes my shoulder when we reach the concourse. “Great game. This whole season is looking so good—”
“Don’t jinx me, Dad.”
He rolls his eyes. “As if you believe in that.”
“But I do. If I start thinking I’m having a killer season, then I might get cocky. I might rest on my laurels. We’re on a helluva streak, and I don’t want to blow it.”
He mimes zipping his lips, but when we get into my car a few minutes later, he unzips them. “Want to get a late dinner tonight?”
That guilt I felt earlier wedges in deeper. I hate lying to people I care about. I hate lying in general.
But, hold on. I can actually tell my dad. At least, I can tell him something, and boy, do I ever want to.
“I can’t, Dad. I’m seeing someone,” I say, and holy shit.
That felt amazing to say.
Like I just drank a glass of sunshine. I’m grinning now too as I look at him across the console.
Dad smiles. “You really like this guy.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fatherly delight.
“I really do,” I say, and tingles rush over my skin as I think of Beck, his musical taste, his cooking, his car purchase, and the endless questions I love answering. “But it’s complicated. Like, really complicated.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “No. Not yet. Right now, I just want to enjoy . . . tonight.”
And that feels good to say too.
After I drop off my dad, I return to my home and get ready for a late-night rendezvous with my rival.
The man who won his game too arrives an hour later. God bless black BMWs, garages, and secret affairs.
Sometime around midnight in my bed, Beck makes good on his Halloween party text message promise.
I walk him and talk him through his first time, showing him how to make me moan with pleasure as he gets me ready. When I’m writhing and begging, he grabs a condom.
His eyes are more intense than they’ve ever been. All he wants is to make it good for me.
But I want to make it easy for him, so I get on all fours. “Fuck me like this, baby. I love this position, and you will too.”