Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“What if—”
No.
“Could he—”
Nuh-uh.
With a brother in the league, I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the downright horrifying. Those guys might seem tantalizing when they’re in uniform down on the field, hitting grand slams in front of a crowd of adoring fans, but I know better. The huge egos? The insane travel schedules? The veritable buffet of female companions? No ma’am. Professional athletes are best handled at a distance, preferably far enough away that their chiseled jawlines blur into oblivion.
Enter Grant Navarro.
He’s the baseball player to end all baseball players. The one I should have marked with a big red X the first moment I laid eyes on him. Only the night we met (and kissed—oops), I didn’t know he was my brother’s newest teammate. Imagine my shock when I realized the sexiest man in Manhattan was officially off limits. Just my luck!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
TATE
As ridiculous as it sounds, it all started with a silly dare.
I’m putting the finishing touches on my mascara when one of my roommates lays this gem on me: “We triple dog dare you to hook up with someone tonight.”
Wow. So original. If we were in eighth grade, the dare would be accompanied by tittering laughter, blushing cheeks, and a speed-dial call to some punk named Jason. But we’re not middle schoolers. We’re adults in our mid-twenties with careers and ever-intensifying skincare routines. I contribute to a 401k. I am not susceptible to ridiculous dares.
“Is that even a real thing?” I ask Daphne.
She’s the one who issued the dare. I thought she was otherwise occupied—she’s been lying on my bed in her underwear (no boundaries with this one) watching a makeup tutorial on YouTube and trying to convince herself that today, finally, she might master the art of winged eyeliner—but I was wrong. Apparently, she grew bored with the video and moved on to a more interesting topic, i.e. my love life.
She’s looking at me now like I’ve just asked her if cheese really belongs on pizza. “Yes, it’s a real thing! There are compounding levels of dare seriousness. A triple dog dare is an escalation of a double dog dare, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I retort.
My other roommate, Sophia, steps out of my closet. She was in there rifling through my clothes, trying to decide if she should swap her outfit and wear something different to the party we’re about to attend. She shouldn’t bother. She looks great in her white dress.
Her problem is she’s bored. She’s been ready to leave for half an hour. Always on time, she’s the mom of the apartment, which would make Daphne the petulant toddler, and me…somewhere in between. The spunky middle child? The type-A oldest daughter? Who knows. I’m a fiercely competitive, goal-oriented people pleaser. I am not whimsical like Daphne or as serious as Sophia. I do, however, enjoy a challenge, which is maybe why Daphne has dared me in the first place. She knows me too well.
I touch up my mascara one last time and then twist the cap closed. “So what happens if I complete the dare?”
I’m imagining a trophy with my name carefully engraved on it. A three-tier cake in my honor.
I catch their private glance in my mirror; their barely restrained smiles say it all. Sophia and Daphne are sisters. Occasionally, they share a secret language I’m not privy to.
“Uhhh…you get to enjoy a night of raucous lovemaking?” Sophia responds.
Daphne sits up and emphatically adds, “You get laid, Tate. Laid. You need it. Everyone agrees.”
“Who’s everyone?”
Sophia grunts. “You don’t believe us, do you?” She affects a serious tone as she continues, “All those in favor of Tate getting banged tonight say ‘aye.’”
Daphne and Sophia both raise their hands. “Aye.”
“Those opposed say ‘nay.’”
“Nay,” I respond drolly.
“The ayes have it, and the motion is carried.” She bangs her fist on my bed like a gavel.
“Hilarious. Both of you.”
I zip my makeup bag closed and step back to assess my look. I’ve poured myself into a black mini dress that I’ll pair with a vintage Knicks bomber jacket and black heeled ankle boots. I’ve let my chestnut brown hair do its thing. It’s long and prefers to be unkempt at all times. If I try to straighten it completely, it curls. If I curl it, it decides to go pin straight. People have told me it’s sexy, so I try to just roll with it these days.
My makeup, hair, and outfit actually all look good, which means in the next week I’ll have to pay for it somehow. That’s just the way it is; you can’t have it all. Tomorrow, watch, I’ll wake up with a pimple the size of Mount Vesuvius.
“Look at her, Soph: a bombshell. You make me so proud.” Daphne applauds from her perch on my bed.
I tap a pretend watch on my wrist. “You getting up anytime soon? We’re supposed to be there already.”
She groans and dramatically log-rolls off the bed. “Okay fine! Fine! I’m going. It should only take me like thirty minutes to figure out this winged eyeliner.”
“DAPHNE!” Sophia and I both chide in unison.
“I’m kidding! I’ll be ready in five. Go crack open a bottle of wine to take the edge off before we leave because that dare is happening, my friend. Mark my words. An hour from now, you’re going to be doing the splits on top of some Henry Cavill lookalike. I know it.”
It’s Tuesday night in New York City and we’re heading to a random apartment. In the normal world, people don’t party this hard on a Tuesday, but we aren’t in the normal world. We’re beholden to the whims of major league baseball and its somewhat erratic schedule. Spring training wrapped up yesterday down in Florida and the Pinstripes are back in New York after a long month away, which means, tonight, we celebrate.