Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “Don’t be a creeper.” I let go of the door handle and continue to the main gym.
I hit the treadmill, running off the pent-up energy and the frustration over everything that happened today.
As far as my creative writing assignment goes, I should have put in more effort than I did. I figured I’d get a slap on the wrist for it being short, though, not a failing grade. Professor Sweet called me on my bullshit, which isn’t something most of my professors would do. Many of them know who my dad is, and that I’ve been drafted to Nashville. And sometimes I do use that to my advantage. It’s shitty, but then, a lot of people use their connections, so why shouldn’t I? There’s a good chance I’ll never use this degree anyway, at least not if I get called up after graduation. Eventually I’ll be making high six figures a year, or more. I doubt I’ll earn what my dad did, because I’m not as good as he was, but I’m decent. Good enough.
Not the best, though.
Not like Kody, who seems to be naturally good at everything. He makes hockey look effortless, although I’m aware he nearly kills himself to be as good as he is on the ice. And when he fucks up, he punishes himself with workouts and drills. He’s an interesting guy. We grew up together, but sometimes I wonder if he’s my best friend just because we’re both in hockey, and maybe also because our friendship kept him close enough to get to my sister.
I don’t know that his brain is wired to use people like that, though.
I mean, he spent nearly a decade self-flagellating over Lavender and thinking he wasn’t good enough for her. I don’t know that he could handle the mental and emotional toll it would take to straight-up use me.
He’s another reason I don’t ever want to get attached to anyone.
Not him specifically, I guess, but the way he carries around the burden of loving someone. It’s like a noose waiting to tighten and snap the life right out of you. Or worse, suffocate it out. It’s fucking terrifying.
I’m all up in my head, not paying attention to the time, so at eleven, the kid working the front desk comes over and tells me he has to shut things down. I end my run and leave him to lock up. I know him from parties, so he lets me take my time getting out of here.
I nod to a couple of stragglers in the locker room and make small talk with one of the guys who I’ve run into here a few times in the past. Eventually, the locker room empties, and I wait until everyone else is gone before I head for the sauna. I open the door and gag. There must be a backup for sure. It smells like baked urine and ball sweat in here.
I could head to the team’s facility, but then I’d have to get dressed and risk running into my teammates. Or I could go home and use the hot tub, but there’s a chance there are people over, using it already—maybe River and his football buddies, or my cousin BJ and our friend Quinn. They have their own hot tub and live two doors down, but they’re always over at our place, using ours instead. Kody doesn’t invite people over because he generally doesn’t like them—people, that is.
The later I get home, the less likely it is that anyone will be awake, looking to talk or hang out. I rummage around in my bag, checking for the master key to the athletic facility that I found last year. It was lying on the floor outside the locker room, so I tried it, and it worked on the door. I found out pretty quick that it opened more than the men’s locker room; it works on all the doors in the athletic facility.
Whoever lost it never reported it, because the locks haven’t been changed. I’ve only ever used the key for after-hours locker room access. And I haven’t gotten caught.
I grab my towel and the master key and poke my head out into the hall. It’s quiet, and I know the guy who locks up never checks the locker rooms before he leaves. It should be a couple of hours before the cleaners arrive.
I pad down the hallway, still wearing my running shoes. There’s no way I’d go barefoot in the guys’ changing room. I did it once a long time ago and spent three years with plantar warts.
I knock on the door to the women’s locker room before I slide the key into the lock. I crack the door a couple of inches and call out “cleaning,” then wait to make sure I’m in the clear. The lights are still on, but it’s empty.