Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
After we test a few more beers, spitting them all out in the bucket, Trevor flashes a smile at the camera. “That’s all in today’s edition of Two Bros Who Like Brew. I’d like to thank our regular color commentator, my one and only little brother. Jones, as always, your opinions are born of immense depth and great knowledge of the field of beer. Truly, your insight astounds me.”
I point at him as Cletus yawns in my lap. “As does yours when it comes to football. Like the time you told me how I should run almost out of bounds then back in to catch a forty-five-yard pass from Cooper Armstrong while avoiding defensive coverage.” I shake my head in amusement at that ridiculous bit of Monday-morning quarterbacking from him.
“Ouch. He questions my knowledge of the game, folks. You witnessed it firsthand.”
We say goodbye, then he signs off and hits the stop button on his digital camera.
“More than one million views of the last episode. Damn, I am so funny.” He blows on his fingers, too hot to handle. Cletus yaps at him. “Even your dog agrees with me.”
“I’m pretty sure that was a bark of disagreement. Right, little dude?” I look at Cletus, who tilts his head to the side, clearly a yes. “All right, you’re a good boy.”
I set him down, reach for a tiny biscuit, and ask him to spin. My brown-and-white ten-pound dog executes three perfect circles, so I give him the treat. Cletus has won awards in dog agility trials because he’s so fucking awesome he blows all the competition away. His jumps are magnificent, and his pole-weaving is a thing of beauty. Natch, I taught him everything he knows.
He rushes off with his treat, squirreling it away in one of his many dog beds. He has a couple in every room, but I swear he’s not spoiled.
I stand to my full height. I’m seven inches taller than Trevor. One of the tallest receivers in the NFL at six feet, five inches, I don’t fit into my family. No one else comes even close to six-foot, not our other brother, David, and not our dad. My sister, Sandy, is a foot shorter, and our mom is the shortest of all, a little less than five four.
“Thanks again for doing my show with me,” Trevor says.
I smack his shoulder. “You know I love it. You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know, but I appreciate your time. You’re in demand.”
I scoff. “You’re family. There’s no pressure on my time from you. I’m just glad you’re back in town,” I say, since he used to be based in New York.
“Me, too. Also, you are in demand. Speaking of, are you ready for tomorrow? Time to roll up our sleeves and plan your next steps with the new agent.”
I groan and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that word. Agent basically means thief.”
Trevor pats my shoulder and nods sympathetically. “Yeah, but Ford is one of the good ones. He’s not going to screw you out of your money.”
I scoff. “They all do, don’t they?”
“Not all of them.” He tips his forehead to the door. “I’ll swing by in the morning, and we’ll talk to him on the course.”
I might have made some questionable choices. I might have partied too hard and too long. But I never screwed anyone who didn’t want it.
Can’t say the same for my old agent.
7
JILLIAN
I’m not lacking in confidence. But this crush? C’mon. I’m a smart woman. I know better.
I’m the director of publicity for the team.
Jones is looking for arm candy. He’s been photographed with stars and models, with one beautiful babe after another.
But every now and then, the ladies photograph him. Like the morning after the team’s Super Bowl win two years ago. That’s when a buxom blonde named Chelsea tweeted a selfie with Jones sleeping in her bed. Her face in the frame with our snoozing star receiver, she captioned the pic so cleverly with her newly acquired knowledge: “It’s true what they say about a size of a man’s hands.”
Yep. Our player had become more famous for swiping right than for his game-winning touchdown pass.
I wouldn’t call it a PR disaster, because what single pro baller doesn’t want to celebrate his Super Bowl win in that kind of biblical fashion? But it became a feeding frenzy for the media outlets, hounding us for details on Chelsea. Who was this woman who had Jones Beckett in her bed?
The cat was out of the bag. Jones used Tinder. Whoop-de-doo. That was how he became the poster boy for the hookup app for a few months. That is reason #1089 why I don’t take my unrequited crush on him seriously. I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.