Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I couldn’t help but crack a smile back, relieved at having someone around who at least felt familiar and comfortable to me. Team mechanics were one thing, but the whole mental aspect, building a rapport, wasn’t something that could usually be rushed.
I felt like I’d barely had a second to catch my breath. The whole morning was now a blur. Even fucking Cullen had seemed to move at lightning speed in retrospect, just a jumbled highlights reel of his hands on me, the moans and gasps, the exquisite starburst pleasure of sinking inside him, all gone too fast, and then the blare of the alarm clock. The jigsaw of memory sat heavy in my chest as we finished up practice, and I moved through the rest of the day like a chess piece being shuffled from place to place, trying to remember a thousand things at once.
After meeting with the coaches and other staff, Molly took me to my apartment in Venice and showed me around. It was simple and minimalistic, but nothing to complain about, and she’d had the fridge stocked for me.
Once she left, I unpacked my duffle bag, then went into the tiny kitchen and cracked one of the beers in the fridge, carrying it with me to the large picture window in the living room that looked out over the street below and a thin slice of beachfront visible between two buildings in the distance. I pulled out my phone and snapped a pic.
Houston: Check out this view. Expansive. Picturesque.
Cullen: I’ve seen better.
I was about to make another smart-ass retort when a picture came through of Cullen with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It was easily the better view, that cocky smirk, the shelf of his pecs, and the deep V lines I’d been licking last night disappearing behind white terry cloth.
Houston: That’s you right now?
Cullen: No, it’s one of my stock selfies I keep laying around when I’m trying to get laid.
I hit his contact information in the phone, and he chuckled when he answered. “Damn, eager much?”
“Do you really have thirst trap stock selfies? Is that a thing?”
“It’s a thing, yeah, but I don’t need them, obviously. My face is enough.”
“Maybe five years ago.”
“Mmm. I can hear the longing in your voice already. So, how was it?”
I sank into an armchair, gazing distractedly out at the twilit view, and gave him the truth. “It was overwhelming. Really fucking overwhelming, and I’m rusty, you know? Haven’t been on a field in over two years. It just feels different. I mean, that’s not a complaint. I just…”
“You just want to measure up. I know, you goddamn perfectionist,” Cullen said, but his voice was laced with both fondness and understanding that eased some of the tension in my chest. “But that’s also not true. You’re not playing anymore, but you’re on the field every week at Canyon High. Different dynamics, smaller stakes, but you’re not rusty. You’re a good coach. Instinctive, easy to connect with. I’ve seen it myself. Hell, even Charity saw it. Remember how we used to stay after practice sophomore year and just go through drills and plays, just you and me? You were as good at that as you were on the field playing.”
The memory unfolded itself from deep in my psyche, long buried away but potent. Darkening skies and Cullen and me still on the field, throwing passes to each other. The potency of that memory sat both warm and hard in my chest. Tender and gentle at once, an ache that lived as much in the past as in the present. Twenty-four hours and I was already goddamn thinking about him like this. I needed to stop.
“How’re things there?”
Silence stretched for a beat, and then Cullen said, “Quiet. But it’s nice not jockeying for the remote control every time I want to watch TV.”
I laughed. “We both watch the same thing anyway.”
“I know. I figured I should just bitch about something, real couple style. Remote controls are a popular one, or so I hear.”
“Uh-huh. So back to that selfie. That really fresh?”
“Yep, just got out of the shower. Jacked off all over your walls, by the way. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t if you let me see you in that towel.”
“Gimme two seconds.”
Sunday’s game was a home one for LA, which I was glad for because it gave the team a little extra confidence, and it gave me more time to acclimate, even though I’d arrived jittery from all the coffee I’d downed that morning. I’d spent much of the day and night prior going through the playbooks and game tapes, fine-tuning and recapping my knowledge of each of LA’s wide receivers’ strengths and weaknesses. I’d hardly slept. Fortunately, we were expected to win against Carolina, and by the fourth quarter, we were up by seventeen. The stadium was packed with fans that kept the team hyped with their exuberant cheers under the sunshine beating down in the late afternoon.