Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 95019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Please go,” I whisper.
Ryan doesn’t budge. I’m about to demand he leave when he asks, “How do you know that?”
“I’ve had girlfriends tell me.”
“Like, many girlfriends?”
It was one girl, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?” he asks.
I glare at him. “This is your response when I tell you this deeply personal thing? It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”
“This is important information, though. If you’d told me, we would’ve started in a completely different place. This is like emergency-intervention shit.”
Emergency intervention? He sure has a way of making it sound even worse. “Will you stop making fun of me?”
Ryan approaches. “Dude, I’m not making fun of you.” He starts like he’s about to put his hand on my shoulder, but stops himself, surely because of all the times I’ve told him to keep his hands off me tonight.
“You think maybe that’s why you have a hard time flirting with girls?” he asks.
He has a point.
“Maybe. Because I know even if I got to that moment, it would suck, and that would scare them off, and then…it just seems so fucking humiliating. Why are you still here? Leave me alone. Go tell your friends what a prude I am and have a laugh. I know you guys make fun of me.”
Ryan nods, turns and heads to the door, closes it. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, keying away.
My nerves quickly transform into hot fury. I can’t believe he’s texting his friends about this in front of me. “Okay, I meant leave and tell them, not send a group text.”
He side-eyes me. “I’m texting Gisele so she knows she doesn’t have to wait for us.”
“Oh…”
After he sends the text, he approaches me again.
I’m totally thrown. After what I just shared, why is he still here? Why won’t he leave me the hell alone?
11
Ryan
I’ve learned a lot about Mart in the last few minutes.
Not just that he’s a bad kisser, but that he thinks even less of me than I realized. We aren’t on great terms, but I never would have guessed he’d assume my reaction to hearing him share something so personal would be to run off and start sharing that with my friends.
A part of me thinks I should do what he wants: leave.
But this is my fault. If I hadn’t pushed him with Gisele, he wouldn’t be so worked up.
As he stands there, his expression locked in a scowl, I approach. The way he glares at me, if I didn’t know him like I do, I’d think he was gonna haul off and hit me.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he says through his teeth.
“Let’s sit on the bench for a minute.”
“You mean my bed?”
“It’s an expression. Come on.” I approach the edge, take a seat, patting the spot beside me.
“Whatever,” he concedes, plopping down beside me.
“I’m sorry.” My apology seems to catch him off guard because his scowl shifts to confusion. “I clearly didn’t read this right. I should have asked more questions before making assumptions. As I said, if I’d known this was an emergency situation, I would have started in a totally different place.”
He glares at me. “Can you stop calling it an emergency situation?”
Me and my dumb mouth.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, no, you definitely meant it. Sooorrrry…” He couldn’t be more sarcastic if he tried. “Not all of us have had hundreds of girls to practice on.”
“Hundreds seems…” I consider it briefly…well, not as brief as I would’ve expected…because wow, I guess my numbers are up there. “I mean, that has to be wrong. Right?”
His eyes narrow.
“Okay, so this kind of talk isn’t helping. Let’s scratch all the shit we did downstairs. I’m getting where this insecurity is coming from now, so I can help you.” Because, really, this has given me an important insight into why Marty’s so insecure.
“Help me? No, no. We’re done with this. I’m out. I’m not showing you how to fucking tango. You’re not showing me how to flirt. We’re not doing this teaming-up thing. We’re going back to the way things were.”
I’ve had guys get like this on the team before. Wigging out. Being irrational because they’re so caught up in the emotional after missing the catch or fumbling. I need to keep my cool and be here for him the way I would for one of my guys.
“Hey, hey, look at me. Mart, come on…look at me. Marty.”
He’s as stubborn as always, but he finally breaks, and I can see the hurt in the subtle downturn of his lips, the softness in his eyes. When he’s not being a complete dick, it’s possible for me to sympathize with him.
“This is clearly hitting a nerve,” I say. “I’m sure that wasn’t great to hear from girls, and it’s obviously left an impression, but if you want me to be honest with you—”