Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
With a sigh, Chelsea pushes against me gently, and I dutifully roll off her. Apparently, our amazing make-out session is now officially over.
“I should get some sleep,” she whispers. “Insufficient sleep leads to a decreased attention span, impaired concentration, reduced decision-making abilities, and difficulties with problem-solving.”
“Yeah, sleep is important.” I’m beside myself at my mistake. “Hey, listen, I’m really sorry I pushed so hard on the physical stuff, Chelsea. You told me you needed to take things super slow, and I stupidly—”
“No, no, Luca. You were perfect. We have the finals tomorrow, and my team is counting on me as their unofficial captain. I want to be at my best.”
It’s a crock of shit, obviously. A minute ago, she was grinding herself into my hard dick so enthusiastically while moaning into my mouth like a feral cat, I thought she was on the cusp of coming from that alone. That’s why I suggested me helping her get to the Promised Land—because it seemed like she was well on her way there anyway, and I selfishly wanted the thrill of being the guy to give her that final push for the first time.
With an attempt at a smile, Chelsea heads for the door, while I follow her with my hands strategically placed to hide my massive, albeit wilting, boner.
“I had a lot of fun with you, Luca,” she says on an exhale at the door. “Thanks for everything.”
“I had fun, too.” I feel totally deflated. Like I’d do anything to rewind the clock and keep my big mouth shut. “Good luck tomorrow. I’d love to know how it goes for you.”
She smiles thinly, letting me know that’s not going to happen. That this is it. A permanent goodbye. “Good luck with football. I hope all your dreams come true. Thank you for the ice cream and the rose. That was really sweet of you.”
Fuck me, I blew it. Chelsea told me to go slow, and I took things too fast, and now the coolest, hottest, smartest, funniest girl I’ve ever met can’t get away from me fast enough. “Thanks for the medal.”
With a little twist of her lips, which are now pink and swollen from our voracious kissing, Chelsea steps out the door and then practically sprints down the hallway without looking back—a fact I know because I watch her retreating frame the whole way with an ache in my chest until she turns the corner and disappears from sight.
Chelsea the Mathlete from the University of Chicago is gone now. Forever. She’s simply heading for the elevators, as far as she knows. But to me, she just ran away and straight into my own personal hall of fame.
CHAPTER 3
Chelsea
Present day
The Mastodons training facility
An hour outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
THE BIGWIGS AT the conference table just finished the third of eight agenda topics, and they’re currently having a side conversation about something casual before launching into the next official item, so I’ve got a break from my note-taking that allows me to briefly stretch my fingers and look out the far windows of the large room at the early-morning blue skies and tops of leafy trees filling the panes.
I’m on the third floor of the Mastodons complex, sitting in the corner of the largest conference room in the building. The one with a long table big enough for key members of both sides of the Mastodons organization—the top coaching staff and operations executives—to sit comfortably in plush leather chairs without bumping elbows.
I’m not officially part of this meeting, given that I’m sitting here as the “head coach’s assistant,” which isn’t even a real job and nobody, including me, knows my actual job description. I’m here merely to take notes for the new head coach—my father—and also to get a read on the operations people in attendance, if possible.
Are they in Dad’s camp or firmly aligned with their old-school boss, the Mastodons’ general manager, Walker Bellamy, even though the Mastodons have been the worst team in the league for six seasons running? It’s too soon to say, but I’ve been studying body language throughout the meeting so far to try to figure everyone out.
As the men around the large table launch into the next agenda item, I place my fingers on my keyboard, poised and ready to dutifully take notes, as requested. But when a group text from my family chat pops up on the top corner of my screen, it’s too cute not to quickly respond. It’s my oldest brother sending positive vibes to Dad and me on our first day of training camp in the NFL. Given that Lincoln’s a busy veteran player with his own first day of training camp a thousand miles away, it’s incredibly thoughtful of him to send such a sweet note.
Lincoln: Hey, Pop and Pop-Tart, bust some Mastodon ass today.