Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“I thought they were going to put a cute picture of me on the big screen at the stadium and that would be the end of it.”
How embarrassing.
My naivety landed me in this mess, and I cannot blame him for the position I’m in.
To make matters worse, I feel like I’m being watched—because I am.
Everywhere I go on campus, all eyes are on me. Class, the student union, walking through the quad—people are staring.
It’s a ton of pressure to know I’m being judged: on my appearance, on my credentials, Dallas’s fans finding me worthy or unworthy based on my looks, my waitressing job, my major.
The simple fact that I’ve been fighting the temptation to do my hair and look cute to impress strangers weighs on me, so instead of doing that, I’ve been throwing on a hat and sunglasses before leaving my apartment.
But wait! There’s more!
I went to sleep Saturday night with five hundred followers and woke up with thirty-two thousand. Deleted my account and created a new one with a fake name and made it private to prevent the same thing from happening again.
On top of all this, my father has been driving me up the wall about Dallas, wanting details I cannot provide: how long have he and I been together (we’re not), will I be bringing him home to meet the family (no), have I met his older brother Duke (also no), has he shown me the playbook (um, no—why would he do a thing like that?).
And can we mention the fact that when I left the house this morning, there were photographers outside my apartment building taking photos of me walking—which was weird in itself. Why would anyone want a picture of me bundled up in a hat, coat, and mittens, walking to campus?
Who cares about shit like that?
Not me.
My phone buzzes and I’m relieved to see it’s a message from Winnie, my only saving grace throughout this mess. My best friend may love to party and be in the spotlight, but she’s been amazing at soothing my overactive imagination and keeping me from freaking the fuck out.
Winnie:
Good news! I took your shift for the evening so you won’t have to brave the dinner crowd.
STOP IT. You goddess. Are you being serious right now??
I’m like your fairy godmother, aren’t I?
Yes. Why are you doing this for me?
Um, you seem stressed LOL
I do? What would make you say that?
I mean. It’s true, I have been stressed. What normal girl wouldn’t be?
Um, the fact that you’re running around hiding your face and wearing sunglasses inside as if people aren’t going to know it’s you?
Winnie has seen the articles.
She knows how my social media blew up, how the media has been putting out info about me for public consumption.
All I’m saying is, take the night off. Maybe try to talk with Dallas, get some of this figured out if you can.
I’d love to figure this out, but I feel like we need a plan. Honestly, though, there’s nothing either of us can do to get these horses back in the stable.
I’m sorry, what now? Horses? What does that mean?
It’s something Dallas has said, LOL. It’s like letting the cat out of the bag—impossible to corral and get back in.
Yeah, no. That still makes no sense.
ANYWAY…thanks for taking my shift. I owe you.
Duh. Obviously you owe me.
My shoulders sag with relief; thank God I don’t have to show up for my shift tonight—I need a night where I can just lie low and chill, figure my life out. There’s also the other struggle I’ve had nagging at the back of my mind.
The fact that I have feelings for Dallas and he doesn’t know.
Plus.
The fact that I have feelings for him and he doesn’t want a girlfriend.
Plus.
I am his teammate’s ex.
Plus.
We’re caught up in a media storm and that’s taken center stage in our lives.
Plus, plus, PLUS.
Ugh, when is it going to end? What can I possibly say to him to let him know how I feel?
Should I?
It feels like a bad idea.
Winnie thinks I need to spit it out and be done with it so it’s not constantly on my mind, but truly, I personally think I need to bury the feelings so I don’t get hurt.
I don’t want to get hurt.
Again.
The reasons are simple:
I was dumped by a guy who never bothered to get to know me.
Who wants to be rejected by someone they like?
Who wants to be rejected by someone they’ve had sex with?
We slept together with no understanding, but the intention was clear: both of us wanted to get laid. We weren’t looking for a commitment. We were DSO: desperately seeking orgasm.
And we can’t forget I was the instigator in each of the times Dallas and I were intimate. It was my idea to play truth or dare. It was my idea to write KISS ME above my crotch, thinking it would be hilarious and also drive him to distraction.