Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“It isn’t … treatable?” I ask, squinting at him in disbelief. “Just like that? Pop? Done? Don’t people tear their ALCs all the time?”
“ACLs,” he corrects me, then shoots a look across the table. “Seriously, bro? You’re acting like you don’t know what an ACL is. It’s an athlete’s nightmare, to tear one completely. It’s the worst leg injury an athlete can have short of losing the damned thing.”
“I know. I’ve heard of it. I know it’s a … sports thing. I just could’ve sworn it was in the ankle …”
“Ankle. Knee. Same difference. My leg’s fucked. The end.”
I stare down at my plate and my cold eggs. His tone is getting harder and more annoyed by the second. I can barely look at him now. The more words we exchange, the more I feel like we’ve grown into two different people.
And I thought he went and made it into the major leagues. To hear that his dream was cut short on account of an injury makes me want to cry for him. Not that he’d want my tears.
“It … was a complete tear,” he adds, his voice a touch softer. The slight gentleness of his tone makes me feel safe enough to bring my gaze back up to his. He licks his lips—naturally reminding me that they are very much still there, and very much still plush and kissable as ever—and then says, “I underwent the therapy. Lots of it. When I made what they deemed to be a full recovery, I went back out onto the field. But my leg … it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t run like I used to. Something was wrong. Something was all fucked up and off. ‘Oh, no, nothing’s wrong,’ they said. ‘Keep trying. Keep going to therapy. Keep training.’ Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I knew there was something fucked about my leg, no matter what anyone else said. Then tryouts for the majors came, all perfectly fuckin’ set up for the scouts, and …” His voice trails off as he glares at his emptied plate, swallowing all his fury.
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to draw out the whole story from him right now. Or maybe it’s the perfect time to do so. It could be the reason he got so fucked up last night. He’s had enough of the demons of “what could have been” with his life.
Maybe he’s going through a nasty divorce right now. Maybe he had a wife and five babies since we last saw each other. I’d never know. I don’t know him anymore. Clearly.
Can’t deny the fact that it always made me jealous when I saw Stefan with a girl. Even I had my modest couple of girlfriends back in high school, but I never went past third base with any of them.
Apparently I feel it necessary to make a baseball pun with my half-existent high school sex life.
I take a breath before speaking. “I really didn’t mean to dig all of this up. I was just curious what you’re …” I shrug and let out a tiny sigh. “… what you’re up to. I guess.”
Stefan studies me for a moment, his eyes burning blue and fierce. “Bunch of messed-up fuckery is what I’ve been up to. The hell else did you expect from your good ol’ bro?”
I shrug. “I guess I expected plenty of baseballs, ten hot chicks, and a sports car.”
He studies me for a second, long and hard. “Replace the hot chicks with another pile of your eggs and you got it about right.”
I shove my plate across the table to him. “Go to town.”
“Seriously?”
“Please.”
Stefan doesn’t need to be told twice. He sets my plate on top of his empty one, then hoovers down my eggs like they’re trying to run away from him.
Despite the heavy dialogue we just shared, I catch myself smiling appreciatively at him across the table as I finally take my first bite of croissant. Not that he notices I’m smiling.
Surprisingly, the croissant’s still warm, but hard as a rock.
Much like my cock.
Which still determinedly chooses to be excited by the sight of Stefan putting down my eggs one giant mouthful at a time.
I want to put him down one mouthful at a time.
05
STEFAN
There’s no doubt about it: Ryan Caulfield’s a softie now.
The years took out all the fire I thought he had in him.
Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe I just wanted to see fire in him as a kid when, in fact, he was always destined to be a guy whose life is spent on the bleachers and not on the field.
Or I’m a dick, and I’m being too hard on him.
That’s very fucking possible.
“You can pick anything that looks alright, really,” Ryan tells me from halfway across his bedroom. “My bigger clothes are in the back of the closet since I don’t really wear them as much.”