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)
Fuck you, Fred.
Then black smoke and blazing heat rolls over me, and all thoughts of Fred flee, leaving only one truth. I really might die.
Eight
Finn
“I hate flying,” Dex grumbles at my side. “And I hate wearing a suit.”
Having come directly to the plane from leaving what will now be known as The Game of Suck, none of us had time to change out of our suits. Most of the guys have ripped off their ties. Dex has his jacket wadded up on the armrest between us and is currently digging his big elbow into it as if he can somehow grind the poor thing into dust.
“Flying sucks.” Make no mistake, we have it good in first class. The seats are big, and the food is all right, but it still wears on you. There’s a loneliness to it. Especially when you’re coming home to an empty house. I used to like that. I’d crave alone time after being with my team for all hours of the day. Now I think of walking into my dark place, reheating some chicken and rice to eat in front of the TV, and it just . . . sucks.
“But every time I want to bitch about the suits,” I say to Dex, “I think about what women wear and shut the fuck up.”
Dex grins, which makes him look downright mercenary with that thick beard of his. “Yeah. The heels are for shit. I don’t know how they do it. Although, I think I might straight-up cry if they stopped wearing those pretty bras and panties.”
There’s a slight flush on his cheeks that makes me think he’s got certain sets in mind.
“You thinking about your girl, Dexter?” I grin, giving him a nudge.
Dex leans his head back and closes his eyes as if in pain. “I try not to. Makes it worse, you know?”
I almost tell him that I do know, the response so immediate that I gurgle.
Because, what the fuck? I don’t have a girl.
Then who the fuck have you been thinking about all week? Why is it that your empty apartment now feels like a tomb instead of a refuge?
Facts must be stated.
I miss Chess. I miss her like I’m being denied air.
Running a hand over my face, I stifle a groan. Doesn’t do any good. My mind is still filled with Chess. God, I actually sent her a care package of gelato. I got giddy as a preteen, wondering if she’d like it and which flavors she’d try first.
“Your girl,” I say to Dex. “She’s Ivy Mackenzie’s sister?” Ivy Mac, as our world knows her, is an up-and-coming sports agent and the wife of Gray Grayson, a brilliant tight end who, unfortunately, does not play for us.
“She is.” Dex’s expression can only be described as moony. I wonder if I’ll soon be wearing that same face. Maybe I’ve worn it already. Shit.
Dex stretches his massive hands wide, then curls his fingers into a fist. “First saw her in college. At Ivy’s house. Knew she was it for me right then.”
“But you’re just hooking up now?”
Dex slides me a glance. I get it. We don’t usually talk relationships. Hell, Dex doesn’t usually talk. But he doesn’t ask me why I’m so interested, for which I am grateful. Instead, he shrugs one massive shoulder. “Timing wasn’t right. I told myself it was for the best, that I wasn’t ready, all that shit.”
Quietly, I nod.
“Now that I’ve . . . That we’ve . . .” Dex flushes and clears his throat. “There’s zero hesitation on the field. Seems fucking stupid to hesitate in life.”
He’s right. I’ve never hesitated in football.
Staring at the seat back in front of me, I feel as if I’ve been suddenly caught doing something wrong. I shift in the narrow confines of my seat, trying to find room that isn’t there. “What if . . .” I lick my dry lips, too aware that Dex is quietly watching me. I huff out an uncomfortable laugh. “What if you don’t know what you want? Only that you want something more than what you have?”
“You talking about Chess?” When I shoot Dex a look, he quirks a brow. “I guess you’re not aware of how much you mention her.”
The heat on my cheeks is because it’s hot as fuck in the plane and I’m wearing my stupid suit jacket. Nothing else.
Dex has the stare of an agent on draft day.
“Okay, yeah,” I blurt, then sigh. “I think about her. A lot.” Always. “We’re friends but—”
“You want more,” Dex cuts in with a solemn nod that I’m pretty sure is his version of “duh.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” I rub my tight neck. “Chess is looking for a relationship with someone. God knows she deserves it. Yes, I want her.” Understatement. “And I know a one-off isn’t going to cut it.”