Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
I shift, the question heavier than I was expecting it to feel now that it’s my turn to respond. “I want to feel useful again,” I admit, voice low. “Whole. Football was everything, and then I hurt myself, and suddenly I don’t fucking know who I am anymore.”
Football was my identity, and now that I can’t play until I’m healed—I feel like I’m floating.
Aimless.
Useless.
Annabelle doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she watches me, steady and patient, hearing every word I’ve said. “That has to be hard,” she says softly.
“It is.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “It’s like—if I’m not the guy on the field, taking my team to the Super Bowl, I don’t know what else I’m good at. What if that’s all I ever was?”
She shifts closer, untucking her legs from beneath her. “Then you find something else,” she tells me. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy that quits.”
I’m not. Wasn’t.
But maybe I am.
Lightning flashes, momentarily turning the room white, but neither of us flinches this time.
Annabelle pokes me with the tip of her finger. “If you could do anything other than football, what would it be?”
I swallow, letting the question marinate. “Shit, I have no fucking idea,” I admit honestly. “I’ve never let myself think that far ahead. Haven’t had to think about it since I was in high school.”
I was the guy colleges and universities across the country were scouting by the time I was a junior. So I majored in business but never gave any thought to, well—what would happen if I tore my ACL.
“This is not a career-ending injury. But it’s made me question a lot of shit, which is how I ended up here.” I gesture around the room. “My teammates were here last week and couldn’t shut up about how ‘serene’ it was.” I use air quotes. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. At least I can hear myself think.”
Phoenix, Arizona, isn’t exactly the epitome of chill vibes. Not for me, anyway.
She shifts closer, patting me on the forearm with one of her delicate hands. “I think it’s brave,” she says. “Most people would push through, stay busy, pretend everything’s fine.”
“That’s exactly what I’d do.” I snort. “’Cept my knee wouldn’t let me even if I tried.”
She laughs, light and sweet. “Do you have pets? I feel like I know the answer, but enlighten me. Dog person or cat person?”
“No. Travel too much. But I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“What kind?”
Any kind. “I’ve always thought pugs were cool. Or one of those French bulldogs. Basically anything with a smushed face. They look like they’ve been through some shit, you know?”
She laughs again, a warm, musical sound that somehow makes the storm outside feel even further away. “I can see it. You and a little drooling bulldog snoring on the couch together.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I tease. “That’s retirement goals.”
She hugs her knees to her chest, still grinning. “You’d be a good dog dad.”
That takes me off guard. “Ya think?”
“For sure,” she replies. “You’ve got golden retriever–protector vibe. Like you’d spoil a dog rotten but pretend you’re tough about it.”
“What about you? Dog or cat person?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Dog, for sure. Cats freak me out.”
Fair enough.
She sighs, this sweet, faraway look in her eyes. “Someday I want one of those big goofy golden retrievers that runs for a toy every time I open the door and sheds hair on everything I own. Or a French bulldog.”
“Sounds messy,” I say, teasing.
She smiles. “That’s kind of the point.”
And damn if my brain doesn’t go full cheeseball right then—picturing us tripping over two mismatched dogs with wagging tails that knock shit over and have sad little underbites, instead of a big, beefy dog that could pull a wagon.
I see her shouting at them both in that bossy way she does, pretending like I’m in charge, while laughing our asses off in a place that feels like home.
Where the hell did that thought come from? How could I be daydreaming about a life with her?
Barf, dude. Get a grip.
But the picture won’t leave my head: Annabelle rolling her eyes while tossing a slobbery tennis ball across the living room, me pretending I’m the boss but secretly giving those dumb dogs belly rubs, the two of us living in a place that feels warm and safe and stupidly perfect.
It’s insane. I barely know her.
Chapter 9
Annabelle
The storm is not letting up.
The candles? Have burned down to nubs.
I yawn, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m exhausted. Warm—maybe even a little content—but so, so tired. The fire is a welcome, cozy glow; the couch is comfy, too, and all the adrenaline from earlier this evening has melted away, leaving me heavy and drowsy.
Still, there’s a weird guilt nagging at me. Would I be abandoning Maverick to the storm if I went to sleep first?