Total pages in book: 191
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
He’d texted me twice since, which had honestly still surprised the shit out of me. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about another workout.
The first text had been:
512-555-0199: Saw your almond cake video. Is it as good as it looked? And was that Maw Maw’s flamingo you had on?
It had made me smile… and made me a little nauseous. Him watching my videos was nice, but it made me feel self-conscious. Really self-conscious.
I’d texted him back that the cake was really good—the recipe was going in my book—and that if I had time, maybe I’d make him some the next time we saw each other. I also confirmed that the flamingo pendant I’d had pinned to my apron had belonged to his grandma.
He hadn’t texted me back after that.
Two days later, I got another message.
512-555-0199: Paw-Paw told me to tell you thank you for his puzzle and card. Said to call him when you get a chance.
The text had come through while I had been busy at work, and I’d forgotten to text him back. But I had called Paw-Paw on my way home from work the day after that, and I’d heard Zac in the background telling him to tell me hi. Apparently, he’d gone back to Liberty Hill.
And that had been the last I’d heard from him. At least until yesterday when the news of his workout was reported.
So now all I knew was that he was in San Diego, hopefully getting another shot. Chances were, he wouldn’t be coming back to Houston if things worked out. And that was good. It was great. The preseason was set to begin in about a week. It was crunch time for everyone. He needed to sign with someone, and he had to do it soon. I wanted that for him, even if it meant… well, whatever it meant. That we wouldn’t see each other again for a while.
No pressure on him or anything. It was just his whole life hanging in the balance of a workout—a tryout, whatever it was called.
“What the fuck are they going to do now?” the voice of one of the members snapped me out of my memory of the day before.
I glanced at the guy with his back to me before plastering a smile on my face as a totally different member came in through the doors, scanning her pass with a quick, “Hey, Bianca” that I managed to return, distractedly.
After that, I glanced at the digital clock on the wall. I didn’t know what time his workout was supposed to start, but….
I hesitated for a second… thinking about it… then decided just to go for it. I peeked around the gym, making sure Gunner wasn’t visible, and then pulled my phone out from underneath the keyboard. It only took a second to type up a text.
Then I deleted it and wrote another one.
He had come over. He had apologized. He had asked enough questions about my past to seem genuine. For some strange reason, he’d asked me to take him to the dealership instead of his manager or his roommate or one of his hundreds of friends in Houston.
Friends were supportive, and I really did want to try and do better, at least this one last time.
Especially since, from the way things had gone the day I’d taken him to the dealership, I wasn’t the only one who thought our friendship was like riding a bike. Some things were easy. And there were some people in life that you just… clicked with if you had the chance. It just so happened that Zac was one of the most likable people I’d ever met. I just wouldn’t forget that he got along with everyone.
And so did I, for the most part—minus Gunner, but nobody liked him.
So I was going to keep cheering my friend on, I decided, and sent him the message.
Me: You still got it, old man.
See? It wasn’t worded to where he would feel obligated to respond, and if he didn’t, I wouldn’t get disappointed. I hadn’t the second to last time he didn’t text me back. It was good enough, and I was pleased. I had tried.
Freaking luckily, I managed to stash my phone back under my keyboard about three seconds before the side door opened and Gunner the Micromanaging Butthole stepped inside with one of the other new owners trailing after him.
I grabbed a stack of flyers sitting on top of the counter and started straightening them so it wouldn’t look like I was just standing there. You know, because organizing and restacking things was time consuming. Right.
I was going to get out of here. One day soon, damn it.
Just as I started straightening up the next stack over—pamphlets for personal training—out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gunner and the Other Asshole Owner steer straight toward the desk. By some miracle, the two members who had been busy talking about the White Oaks said something about the team that caught Gunner’s attention at the exact second he and Asshole #2 stopped in front of the counter.