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)
But for the next sixty minutes, I have one job, and that job is to move the ball.
As soon as I run through the tunnel and onto the field, where I’m greeted by the cheers of our fifty thousand hometown fans, I leave everything behind.
It’s game time.
35
JILLIAN
“Sushi!” my father declares from his spot at the fifty-yard line. “I still can’t get over the fact that you let them serve sushi here.”
He gestures dismissively at the aproned guy peddling California rolls in our section while the teams take a time-out in the second quarter for a commercial break.
“You do know I don’t have any control over what they serve at the stadium?”
He flubs his lips. “Next thing you know it’ll be barbecued kale.”
“Dad, you live in California. They serve wine here, too.”
He scoffs, lifting a cup of beer. “I have my beer, and I’m good to go with my foam finger,” he says, waggling a blue number one on his hand. “And look, I even put a number eighty-six on it for your beau.”
Beau.
Is Jones my beau?
I wish I knew.
The sound of the fans drumming their feet drowns out my sad, pathetic sigh. I thought we were doing the whole let’s-be-together thing. But so far, we’re doing the same thing we were doing before. Nothing.
I try to tell myself it’s timing. It’s the weekend. There’s a game. I have to understand that. Hell, I should understand that better than anyone.
My dad leans in closer, bumping me with his shoulder. “What’s going on with the two of you?”
It’s like he can read my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut as a sob works its way up my throat. “I feel so stupid,” I mutter, and I didn’t plan to say that, but he’s my dad. He’s the one who has comforted me my whole life over bruised knees, bad days at school, and my first teenage heartbreak with a boy named Randall. A flash of fear cuts through me. Is this going to be my newest heartbreak?
He sets down his beer and wraps his arm around me, foam finger and all. “Why do you feel stupid, honey?”
Because I’m going to cry.
Because I want more than two texts.
Because I want to know if Jones has done the same thing I did. “I put my heart on the line, my job on the line, and I’ve barely heard from him,” I say, my voice breaking. Behind us, a woman waves pom-poms and cheers. “All he said yesterday was ‘I’m thinking of you.’”
“Give him time.”
I nod, biting my lip. “It’s just hard.”
He squeezes my shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of my head. “It’s hard when you love somebody. But sometimes, a man has to figure things out in his own time. Man-time does not equal woman-time.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Truer words . . .”
“I wish it did, for your sake, but it doesn’t. You’re a quick thinker and a problem solver. You act. You know your heart and your mind. Some men do, but some men take longer to figure it out. Especially when a man falls for a woman for the first time. It’s like trying to start a car with a leaf. The engine sputters, and warning lights flicker all over the dashboard.”
I laugh loudly at his insane analogy. “Who has ever tried to start a car with a leaf?”
“I hope no one, because I don’t think it would work. Maybe it’s like trying to assemble a desk with a spoon.”
“I love your metaphors. They’re wonderfully awful.”
“I aim to please.” Patting my knee, he adds, “And don’t lose sight of the fact that you did what you needed to do for you. You did the right thing even without the reward in your pocket. Sometimes, we have to take a chance, even if the odds are we’re going to fall.”
I want a soft landing, though. But I haven’t been getting one this weekend, and I suppose I’ll have to be okay with it. “You’re right. It’s only been a few days. I’ll wait patiently.”
“Have faith. Now, let’s watch the game. We don’t want to miss a big play, do we?”
“No way.”
My attention returns to the game as the defense forces a punt. I’ll need to head to the press suite shortly, but I stay with my dad for one more play as the Renegades take possession. When there are eight minutes left in the half, Jones makes a spectacular catch. As his hands cradle the ball, my heart flies up my chest. Once he lands safely out of bounds, I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting.
Waiting for my special signal.
He raises his arms. I cross my fingers.
Cooper rushes to him and they smack palms, then race into the next play.
There is no J, and I don’t have a clue if he even intended to make one before the quarterback high-fived him.