Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Becky’s eyes sparkle with excitement as she shifts in her seat, her hands sliding over the bright orange surface of her desk. “The bottom line is that we only know about it now because they’ve canceled all practices today for a mandatory meeting where the dean will be reading the entire athletic department the riot act. Anyone involved in sports here at the college has to attend. They’re going to lay the law down about personal relationships with the coaching staff.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder as I roll my eyes. “Michael Simmons may have dabbled in some ancient ass but come on,” I say dismissively. “Not one of the rest of us is even a little bit attracted to any of the coaching staff. They're all old. The college has absolutely nothing to worry about.”
Becky nods in agreement. “I know,” she whispers dramatically. “Like any of us care about geezers who blow up balls all day.”
I haven't held on to my virginity to lose it to a random coach—not that I’m saying being a virgin right now makes me smart. In fact, quite the opposite. I’ve held onto it because I’m an idiot who has spent far too many years focused on one person—the very one who wants no part of my virginity. I’ve done my best to like other people, including guys here at college that I tried dating but that quickly went nowhere. All of the binge-drinking around campus (and closet steroid use with the athletes) isn't attractive to me at all. Don’t even get me started on how many of them don't know how to do laundry. There’s a smell in the boy’s dorms and apartments that is stomach turning, so staying away from them hasn’t been a problem.
Meanwhile, whenever my friends talk about my virginal state, I lie and tell them that I'm holding out for a business type. It’s a lie. I have—um, had, dammit! Why does my brain not understand that it’s time to use past tense when thinking of him— a major crush on a man who is the epitome of the athletic type, and no one else has ever measured up to him in my eyes. Not even close. After the events that went down two months ago, I’ve decided I need to move on. The harsh insinuation that I’m too young to know what I want was a tough pill to swallow—one that’s still giving me indigestion.
No, I need to focus. And right now, I’ve decided the best thing to do is to set my sights set on what happens after graduation because once I’m out of college, I’ll be meeting and interacting with different men. Surely it will be easier to find someone, right? In a perfect world, Monday through Friday my man will wear a suit, and on Saturdays, he'll wear nothing at all because we'll be busy rolling around in his bed. Sundays will be casual—maybe khaki pants and a button-down that is most definitely not sexy jeans that perfectly emphasize a ridiculously sexy ass or a T-shirt that shows off an unbelievably perfect upper body. Certainly not a chiseled jaw with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, perfectly kissable lips and coppery chocolate colored eyes that make me weak in the knees.
Andddd I’m now thinking of him again. Dammit!
Picturing that body and those see-through-everything eyes, even for a few seconds, makes my heart beat funny in my chest. I do my best to push those thoughts away. I need not to focus on him anymore. When will that get easier? I’m so lost in my thoughts that I startle when Becky taps my shoulder.
Following the finger she's pointed to the front of the room, I realize our professor is writing something on the board. Shaking off my dreams of a perfect future, I open my blank notebook and uncap my pen to take notes as the first class of my senior year gets underway.
2
Elena
I had to run all the way across campus to make this meeting on time. I'm not even sure how I managed it, but somehow I did. A quick glance around the gym shows that the bleachers are almost full of cheerleaders, football, baseball, soccer, and basketball players. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that none of the coaching staff are in place yet, which means I'm not going to get yelled at for being tardy. I spot my best friend waving at me from the very front row of the bleachers in the section where the cheer squad is sitting. I hurry across the shiny wooden floor and take the seat he saved me next to him, stretching my legs out in front of me dramatically as I lean into his side. Yes, my best friend is a guy. No, he isn't gay. No, we don't like each other. There's zero sexual tension, and there has never been.