Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
He is utterly at home within his skin, within his mind. It’s as if I’m witnessing a man at prayer. A true believer.
I feel transformed right along with him. Pure and revitalized instead of simply going through the motions. Again, that feeling of knowing hits me. Only this time it isn’t terrifying, but a warm balm that makes me aware of my own skin, of each breath I draw in and let out.
I almost forget to take the shot. But when I do, I know it will be the cover. A covetous part of me resents that, as if this moment is private, something Finn Mannus has allowed only me to see.
But then I remember myself. It’s just a job. And the job is now officially done.
Three
Finn
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Jake says after taking a long pull on his beer. “Baby oil is great for my skin. I should have slathered myself in it long before today.”
I laugh. “I was going to mention the way your face now resembles a baby’s butt.”
“This face,” he says, “is going to get me laid after I finish my beer.”
I shake my head and relax into the booth. “Good thing you rubbed baby oil on it, then.”
Personally, I hate the lingering feeling of the damn oil. I’d just as soon forget the whole day. Even as I have the thought, I know it’s a lie. Once the photoshoot got going, when it had been just Chess and me, it had been . . . I don’t even know how to explain it. Different. Unexpected.
For a small while, I’d stopped thinking about my job, about the various aches and pains plaguing my body, about the press, the team’s record, winning, losing. I’d stopped thinking about anything, really. Somehow, Chess had done what I’ve only been able to accomplish on the field; she got me to focus solely on the moment.
Now it’s over. My time with the combative Ms. Chester Copper is done. I’m used to people drifting in and out of my world. I meet new faces almost on a daily basis. I shouldn’t feel any sense of loss.
I do, though. But why?
I’d blame it on attraction, but I’m attracted to women on a daily basis, too. I’ve learned to let it go and get on with my life. Truth is, I’ve felt off and alone since the thing with Britt. Which is something I really don’t want to think about. Ever.
I’m frowning when the waitress sets a heaping platter of smoked oysters on the table. “Here you boys go.” She adds a basket of hush puppies and another basket of fried shrimp to the mix. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Her smile is wide and accommodating. It pisses me off that I instantly wonder if she’s flirting, that I’ve trained myself to immediately second-guess everyone’s motives.
“We’re good,” I tell the woman.
Her smile fades a bit then comes back brighter. “Well, holler if you need me. For anything at all.”
Jake tucks into the food, as she walks away.
“Was she flirting?” I ask him, as soon as she’s out of hearing range.
“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”
“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”
Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”
“Well, for the record . . .” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”
“Maybe you’re imagining things, too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.
“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”
“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”
He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”
I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me: Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual “please do me and then sign my chest” kind of way. She didn’t try to get anything from me, other than a good picture, which was her job. She’d been utterly herself. For a few brief moments, so had I.
“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”
I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same team. We suffered through having to do embarrassing singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked-up buzz cuts with bull’s-eyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.
He is my closest friend. If either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow. He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.