Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Will do, honey. Call me later,” she says, and I disconnect the call the minute the wheels touch down.
I put my jacket on and grab my purse, walking down the steps and seeing that a car waits for me. The driver puts my luggage in the trunk. “Welcome to Chicago,” he says, walking to the back door and opening it.
I get in and see a huge bouquet of red roses. “Those were delivered five minutes ago,” he says. I look at them and grab the white card.
To MY sweet Zara
E.
I smile a smile I don’t think I’ve ever worn. It’s a smile that can’t be erased. It’s a smile that even if you want to erase it, you can’t. It’s a smile that fills your heart, it fills you with warmth and makes your stomach do that little flip.
“Dad was right,” I say to myself as soon as the driver gets into the car.
Chapter Twelve
Evan
“Come on, you two, let’s get you outside.” I roll out of bed, grabbing a pair of shorts and rubbing my face. I walk out of my bedroom and open the back door, letting the dogs free.
Turning, I go back and start my coffee and turn on the television when the front door opens, and I hear heels clicking on the floor. I walk to the fridge and grab the orange juice, shaking it. I see that there is just a bit left, so I bring it to my mouth and swallow the rest of it.
“That’s so gross,” Candace says, and I turn to watch her put her bag down and shrug off her jacket. She looks at me. “You don’t remember?” I look at her confused. “We are going to go over your schedule for the next couple of months,” she says. Going to the coffee machine, she takes my cup out, placing her own cup there, and makes her coffee. “I literally texted you last night.”
I finish off the juice and recycle the container. I open the fridge, taking out the milk and dumping some in mine, then hold it out to Candace in question, and she nods. I place it on the counter and walk over to the door, opening it for the dogs to come in, and they both run to my sister. “Hello, little ones.” Her voice changes to a baby voice. They sit in front of her, their tails wagging while they wait for their turn. I hear my name from the television and look up to see the replays from last night.
The first one is the tripping call, and I laugh, looking at how I tried not to fall on my ass but failed miserably. Then the camera cuts to me skating and replays my penalty shot. I’m watching the screen, and it cuts to Zara when I was celebrating.
“That was a shitshow,” Candace says next to me, and I wait to hear what the commentary says.
“So what do you think, Jim?” one of the reporters says. “You think this is the start of a love story?”
Jim laughs. “I have no idea, but I’m sure everyone will be watching the meetup between Richards and her family.”
“No doubt,” the other reporter says, and I turn the television off.
“It’s ridiculous that your love life is even a topic on SportsCenter,” she says, going to the table and pulling out a chair. Grabbing her purse, she starts taking her stuff out. “I must have seen that replay fifty times since last night, and they always switch from you to that girl.” I keep my anger at bay with that comment.
“That girl,” I say, going to the table, “has a name.” I look at her. “It’s Zara.”
“Yeah, I know. I keep having to fucking tag her in my posts,” she says, and I wait for her to settle all her things. Once she has the laptop opened and is writing on the yellow legal pad in front of her, she looks up at me. “What?”
“How about I help you with that?” I tell her. “If it has to do with Zara and me, let me answer it.”
“You haven’t answered your Twitter since you opened it.” She sits back, folding her arms over her chest.
“Yeah except when she asked me out, and I commented,” I tell her, taking a sip of my coffee. “That reply was low and rude.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “How was I supposed to know you met her?”
“I did meet her. I was the one who gave her the tickets,” I tell her, and the doorbell rings. “This isn’t over,” I say. Getting up and going to the door, I see that it’s the suits I bought in New York.
I walk back into the house, going to get a knife to open the boxes. “What did you buy?” she asks me, looking over at me