Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I glance over my shoulder. Tapping the beat to the song I was listening to on the side of my leg, I eye the device that holds Larissa’s number.
It took every bit of self-restraint that I had last night not to shoot her a text. I constructed no less than fifteen possible ice-breakers—everything from Hey, it’s Hollis (which felt like a vintage sitcom) to Just checking that you made it home all right (which screamed that, while I might be considerate, I might also be lame because no one leads with that) to Wanna fuck?
That one is self-explanatory.
They all felt legit. They all also felt wrong.
River told me to combine all three texts and hit send. Crew told me to sleep on it. And if there’s one thing I know from lots of past experiences, it’s to go with Crew’s advice. He’s never led me astray. River, though? Found myself naked and covered in strawberry-flavored lube once, thanks to him.
I stretch again and head for the shower. Before I can make it far, my phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number. My body tingles, hoping it’s Larissa on the other end—even though I have her number saved under her name, and this isn’t it.
“Hello,” I say, trying my best to sound cool.
It’s a good thing I didn’t lead with a line from last night—any of them—because the voice on the other end is not Larissa.
“Is this Hollis Hudson?” The tone is deep and gritty—decidedly not female.
“Yeah. It is. Who is this?”
“Hey, this is Lincoln Landry. How are you doing?”
Holy shit.
I run a hand over my head and try to ignore how the little boy who watched this guy play in the Majors is freaking out inside me.
Stay calm.
“I’m good,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant about being on the phone with a Hall of Famer. “How are you?”
“Not bad. Thanks for asking. I just wanted to touch base with you and thank you for accepting the Catching-A-Care award.”
I laugh. “What do you mean? Thank you.”
“Apparently, you had my team over here worried you were going to be the first nominee who refused to accept.” He laughs too.
“I …” I stammer as I try to figure out how to explain it and not seem disrespectful or unappreciative. Because I’m neither. “The stuff I do with the kids got exploited my freshman year of college. The school newspaper did a piece on it thanks to a girl I was …”
I gulp. Choose a word, Hollis—one that doesn’t make you sound like a dick.
“Involved with,” I say, finishing the sentence.
“So you were sleeping with her?” he jokes.
“Basically, even though there wasn’t much actual sleeping.”
“Ah, the best kind.” Lincoln chuckles. “I get it. Been there, done dumb shit too. Lots of it. It’s too easy to get in trouble when you’re great looking and full of talent.”
“You feel me then.”
“Hell, yeah.”
I grin. “Well, in that case, I was worried that your offer wasn’t real. That the call was a scam. Besides the campus paper, I’ve managed to keep most of my shit on the down low, so I wasn’t sure. There’s a girl who threatened to ruin my life a while back, and … you can’t trust anyone, you know?”
“You’re damn right I do. I trust my family. That’s it. Well, maybe my brother’s bodyguard. It would be shitty of me not to trust him when he’s taken a hit for me a time or two. Or ten.”
“I get it. I have two guys on my team who I trust implicitly. That’s about as far as I go.”
“Sounds like you have one key of life figured out already.”
“You mean I have to figure out more?” I joke. “I was hoping that was it.”
He laughs. “You’re still young. When I was your age …” He whistles through his teeth. “We’ll just leave that there. There’s not enough time, and if my wife walks in here, I’d be a dead man.”
“Second lesson—no wife.”
His laugh grows louder. “Nah, man. You have that one wrong. Get you one. Just make damn sure it’s the right one. The wrong one will screw you up faster than that hit you took during that interception on the last play of the year.”
I grimace. I’d hoped he’d missed that.
“Are you headed to the pros?” he asks. “I don’t see any notes in your file.”
I sink back onto the bed.
His question cuts through all the distractions I’ve managed to busy myself with over the past couple of weeks. It’s a topic I need to address, and I know that, but I just don’t want to. I don’t know how.
There are reasons to go into the pros—lots of them. But there are a few that make me think I shouldn’t, too, and I don’t know how to separate it all out.
“I have an invitation to the Combine,” I tell him. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet. I’m not sure I even have a shot now that I basically sucked this year.”