Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I was awkward and he was strong.
He’s only stronger now—mentally, physically.
I wonder if there are still things I’ve yet to learn about him?
“What’s with the frown, pretty girl?” he murmurs.
My eyes lift to his, and it’s like there’s a little magnetic pull that wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s trying to tug me in closer, to whisper something I can’t hear, as if I’m a little too far away—only that makes no sense. I’m right here.
“Do you have secrets, Brady?” I ask suddenly.
Brady tenses beneath me, and it takes him a moment to respond.
“A couple,” he rasps, brown eyes bolted to mine as he almost unwillingly admits, “maybe one more now than I had before…”
He says it so softly, I almost miss it. I’m about to ask him before what, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“Why do you ask?”
“Will you tell me one?”
I watch as an array of emotions wash over him—fear, uncertainty, anxiety, and the most confusing…guilt.
Suddenly, I don’t just want to know why all those worries rose at my question.
I need to know. “Tell me.”
“I’m not so sure I should.”
“Do it anyway.”
He inhales, long and deep, and I wonder if those gold flecks have always been in his eyes and I’ve just never noticed them before. “Not tonight.” He pushes my hair from my face.
“Not tonight, but some other time?”
His lips tip up but only on one side. “Yeah, Cammie Baby. Some other time,” he whispers.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not so sure I believe him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Brady
Pouring water over my head, I give my hair a good shake, squirting more into my mouth and swishing it around before spitting on the turf.
Fernando comes up, so I pass him the bottle and wipe my face with the towel hanging from my waist.
We’re in the third quarter, and Alister is getting hammered. My eyes fly to the clock, quickly focusing back on the field just as the ball is hiked. It’s third down, Alister drops back, curls left, and prepares to fire the ball, but the line breaks, forcing him to scramble forward so as not to lose more yards. He manages to get back to the line of scrimmage before he’s tackled, and the whistle is blown.
“Fuck, man,” someone mumbles, and I frown, tracking Alister as he jogs off the field, the punting squad taking his place. Another fucking turnover.
Alister tears his helmet off, slamming it to the bench as he takes the tablet and pulls up the film.
He’s shaking his head when I drop beside him. He doesn’t look up, just glares hard at the screen, watching as the line splits and he’s forced to make the call he did, abandoning the play and trying to get the few yards he nearly lost back.
“I fucking told you,” he spits. “I’m not quick enough. I need more time on the field or I’m never going to get better.”
I can’t argue with that. It’s the only way to level up from a great high school player to a good college one. Alister hasn’t gotten the opportunity he was hoping for, being second to Mason both last season and this one. Practice helps, but there’s nothing like live game play when everyone is coming at you with 100 percent effort, not something your own teammates will give you when you’re preparing for a game. We go hard but with the understanding that we don’t want to injure our own guys.
Out here, everyone on the opposite side of the ball wants to take the others’ heads off.
The punting team is coming off the field, and I have to jump up, shoving my own helmet on and buckling my chin strap. Alister looks up, watching me as I push through the team on the sideline and grip Coach’s shoulder.
He looks up at me because, yeah, I’m taller than he is, a frown of frustration etched across his face.
“I’m not coming off the field when we turn the ball over.” I run out, not letting him respond.
He knows we need to try something. We’re down two touchdowns, our offense turning over the ball an embarrassing number of times the first half.
There’s only four minutes left in the third quarter, and it’s not looking any better.
I take the field with the rest of the defense, getting into position. I meet the eyes of some of our guys, nodding.
We’ve got to stop them to have a chance to win.
Shoving my mouthpiece in, I get ready, eyes snapping across the field, reading the play. The ball is hiked, swiftly passed off to their running back, who bulldozes his way through, getting wrapped up after a five-yard gain.
Fuck. “No more!” I shout, pointing at our defensive tackle.
He nods, and we get set. The quarterback kicks his foot back, the receivers fan out; the left has his body angled the slightest bit to the right, telling me where the ball is about to go—rookie mistake.