Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes on the pitch.
“You’re welcome.” God, his voice. His freaking voice still slays me.
At least, he still has manners. He follows me and looks around when I walk back inside to grab my water bottle. Part of me wants to show him around the center, let him see my office, tell him all of the things I’ve done here and will continue to do, but I don’t. So far, my head is winning the battle against my heart. It’s not an easy feat. I want him to kiss me again, but I don’t. I want him to fuck me, but I don’t. I want to show him this part of my life, but I can’t. Letting him see what I do here would be letting him in more, and I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s a sad realization. Lachlan was once my best friend. Now he’s just a stranger who makes my heart skip.
“You want Gatorade?” I ask, opening the fridge.
“Sure.”
I grab the yellow one — his favorite — and my refilled water bottle, and head to the door. As I approach, he pushes the door open with his back and holds it that way for me. When I get right in front of him, I thrust the Gatorade into his chest — the closest thing I’ll ever get to a punch. I know this because the impact makes my hand hurt.
My eyes stay on the bottle, which he still hasn’t grabbed. “I don’t know if it’s still your favorite. We have other choices, if you want them.”
He wraps his hand over mine as he grabs the bottle. Fireworks go off in my head, the remnants zipping through the rest of my body. Somehow, I manage to hold back the gasp in my throat and not react outwardly.
“There’s only ever been one choice,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against my hand.
Oh. My. God. Why does he do this? I glare up at him and find that cocky-ass smirk on his face. My heart, of course, does a flip. I take my hand and walk onto the field. I’m waiting for eight people today — four girls and four guys. Right now, I’m counting seven. Movement catches the corner of my eye and I turn to find the straggler running over. I can already tell he’s trouble with his messy light brown hair, golden skin, and chiseled jaw. If his hair was a little darker and his eyes were green, I’d say he’s related to Lachlan. I bet he’s probably the hottest soccer player at his college. I glance at the girls. Two of them look like they’re freaking out. The other two are rolling their eyes.
“Hurry up, Barlow,” one of the guys shouts.
“I told you not to stay at the party last night,” another one says.
I give them a moment. I used to hate when my coaches didn’t let us talk before training. During was impossible, and after was exhausting. I look at my watch. They’re five minutes early, so I’ll give them that. The kid, Barlow, finally reaches us. He looks at me and whistles, one of those cartoon whistles that lets everyone know he likes what he sees.
I roll my eyes. “Start stretching.”
I walk back to the chair to get my clipboard with all their information — names, ages, schools, where they’ve played, for how long, etc. Lach is sitting in the chair, legs sprawled out like he’s totally comfortable, which I know is a lie. That chair sucks. He’s wearing sneakers, black joggers, and a plain light gray short-sleeved t-shirt. I’m sure he dressed this way knowing he was coming to the pitch, but I don’t think he realized how hot it could get. Normally, it’s a little cooler this time of year, but we had a weird winter and we’re having a strange spring. Today, it’s eighty-five and sunny. Not black jogger weather, in my opinion, but that’s on him. Closing the distance between us, I grab the clipboard from underneath the chair and stand next to him as I scan it. There’s no shade anywhere else, and in about thirty-five minutes, I’ll be willing to sit on his lap if it means getting out of the sun.
“I bet these fuckers trip over themselves to sign up when they hear you’ll be here,” he says.
“You’d lose that bet.” I shoot him a quick glance. “I don’t usually train co-ed.”
“Good,” he says. “That last fucker who got here is already on my nerves.”
“Why?” I raise an eyebrow. “Does he remind you of someone?”
He scowls. “Does he remind you of someone?”
“A little, yeah.”
His scowl deepens. I keep reading. There’s no point in telling him that while we’re on the pitch, to me he’s just another kid I’m training. Lach wouldn’t care. He’d probably be bothered if a baby whistled at me. I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised to see him upset about the attention I’ve been getting from guys. With the amount of animosity he feels toward me, I wouldn’t think he’d still be jealous. I will say, Wade is the only one who has ever publicly pursued me in three years, so it’s funny that this happens when Lach happens to be here. The jealousy is the only part of the old Lach I’ve seen so far, and I like it.