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)
The guys milled around, rehydrating during a time-out while I stood with the offensive coordinator, Hastings.
“Let’s get Carmen out there. We’ve got the leeway, and Pershing needs a break.” He’d taken some serious hits last quarter, and though he could push through, I had no doubt, it’d be better to let Carmen build up some confidence and not risk Pershing; we’d need him at full strength for next week’s game against Vegas.
Hastings eyed me with a twist of a smile. “Sure about that?”
“Yep.”
After the time-out, LA sacked Carolina’s QB on an attempted pass, and the offensive line trotted out onto the field. The Royals lined up in a single-back formation with one tight end and two wide receivers. Townsend, our QB, took the snap and looked to the right, where Carmen was running a slant route toward the middle of the field. Carolina’s cornerback bit on the fake, and my attention was rapt on Carmen as he cut back to the outside and accelerated down the sideline. Goddamn, I hoped I hadn’t already fucked up by putting him in.
Then Townsend lobbed a deep pass in Carmen’s direction. My whole body tensed as Carmen caught the pass, and Carolina’s defenders started swarming him. Spotting a seam in the defense, Carmen powered through an attempted tackle, lowering his shoulder to plow through the safety. A roar went up from the crowd, even from me, as he dove into the end zone. Pass complete.
Hastings clapped me on the shoulder with a grin. “Not too shabby.”
We ended the game with that twenty-four-point lead, and I floated back to the apartment hours later on cloud nine. It had felt fucking good to be on a pro field again, and I also couldn’t wait to be back in the quiet of my apartment so I could call Cullen and give him the recap, as well as hear his, since the Rush had played earlier in the day, too.
Outside the door of my apartment was a brown moving box, which I carried inside with me, figuring Garrett had made good on his offer to send me some more of my clothes. He’d been surprisingly efficient about it, too.
But when I opened it, there were only a couple of clothes. The rest was miscellaneous paper-wrapped items that I rummaged through, unwrapping the knife I favored in the kitchen, extra salve for my knee that was specially compounded at a holistic wellness boutique in downtown Denver, the holey Southern U team tee that had grown buttery soft and threadbare from years of washing and wearing, my protein shake mixer, and a couple of framed photos that I’d had on the entryway console of me and the Rush, me and Garrett, that my mom had given me. Along with one I’d never seen. The frame was an elegant but simple stained birch, and within it, Cullen and I had our arms hooked around each other, grinning at the camera. I couldn’t remember what game it had been, but I was almost certain Charity had taken it, the way we were so relaxed. Warmth suffused my chest as I plucked out the envelope I spotted beneath and pulled out a note with familiar scrawl on it:
I know how particular your ass is, and I thought you might need these. And since you still have a boyfriend (for now), I included a little something extra. The photo is from senior year when Charity visited in October and we played Silver Ridge? Remember how hammered we got afterwards and fucked in your car at 3 am? Stupid, but hot. I still remember it perfectly, despite how shitfaced we were. Anyway, hope all this stuff gives you a little taste of home.
-Cullen
PS: You’d better put that pic of us front and center where any visitors can see, or I’ll be pissed I went to all the effort to print it out and pick out a picture frame. You should have seen my ass at Pottery Barn trying to decide between frame colors.
I chuckled at the postscript, but my gaze lingered on the photo, that bittersweet ache resurfacing as I stared at Cullen’s smile and mine. I carried the picture with me to the couch, setting it on the coffee table, front and center, just like he’d requested as I sprawled before picking up my phone to call him. Crazy how much I’d started to rely on hearing his voice.
17
CULLEN
I was playing like a motherfucking king. From the Rush’s first possession against Indiana tonight, it was like I could do no wrong. Well, the whole team was fucking killing it, but me even more than the rest.
Cross and I had both made touchdowns—Cross also getting some incredible blocks. Garrett had a forty-yard run in the second, which had put Cross in position for his score on the following play. We’d held Indy scoreless so far. It was the third quarter—first and ten. “Get me the ball,” I told Ramsey in the huddle. I swear it was like I had fire in my blood, fueling me.