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)
Pads.
I tear through my backpack, digging for my cell that’s normally in the front pocket.
There are dozens of new messages—a good sign.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I tap open the message from Eli.
Got it, buddy—breaking news during halftime, should bring you out of the weeds.
Link attached.
I click on it. The familiar faces of three of college football’s leading commentators fill the screen, the halftime logo in the background, Howie Howard pressing a hand to his earpiece.
“Okay, folks, we’re going to interrupt our halftime report to go live with Stephan Copple at CZR, who first broke the Colter cheating scandal story.”
“Thanks, Howie,” Stephan Copple says, also pressing an earpiece with the tip of his finger and broadcasting from an entirely different studio at the gossip rag where he works. “When we first ran the story on Dallas Colter, star quarterback for Wisconsin, he was seen on the porch with someone who was notably not his girlfriend Ryann Winters, a junior classmate at Wisconsin. We didn’t have all the details of the story at the time, and we’re here with a retraction.”
Didn’t have all the details my ass. Fact is, they didn’t want to run with the truth because the fiction sells more advertising space and has people glued to technology.
Behind Stephan Copple, a video begins playing, one he describes on the off chance his viewers are fucking idiots, showing me climbing the steps to my front porch—the address blurred out—and Tiffany emerging from the shadows.
It’s obvious—at least to me—that we are not friendly. My hands are in my pockets and I look defensive, especially at the point where I start questioning why she’s waiting, not knowing she’s there waiting for me.
She’s gesturing but still not invading my personal space.
I back up a foot, an agitated expression on my face you’d have to be blind not to see.
The video has no sound, but it gets to the moment when Tiffany propositions me. I appear to be shocked, moving back, telling her I have a girlfriend.
Again, the audience has no idea that’s what transpired, but it’s not a warm and fuzzy scene by any stretch of the imagination.
Tiffany closes in.
Rises on her tiptoes.
My face is blocked, but in a matter of seconds, I’m rebuffing her, my hands out, my feet stepping back.
I open the front door and slam it, leaving her standing on the porch alone, in the cold.
She folds her arms across her body, giving herself a hug, probably freezing her freaking ass off—as well as she should have. Who shows up half-clothed at the tail end of fall in the Midwest?
Tiffany stands there as if she’s waiting for me to come back outside, but then…
She turns.
Looks directly into the camera and shrugs.
Bounds down the stairs and is seen walking back to her side of the lawn, disappearing out of view.
What the actual fuck.
Unbelievable.
I mean, I knew it was a setup, but this blatant backstabbing bullshit blows my fucking mind.
Wow.
Just…wow.
Suddenly, Drew is up my ass, watching over my back.
“Did you see this?” I ask him, holding my phone up.
“Yup, it’s gettin’ ’round.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, a show of support.
Good.
Awesome.
I don’t pay Eli yet because I don’t have a contract, but he’s already worth his commission fee, and I already know he’s going to have my back for the rest of my football career.
Thank fuckin’ God.
Don’t mean to take the Lord’s name in vain, but hot damn, he saved my ass with a single simple phone call and whatever threats he had to make, whoever he had to pay off to air the actual footage.
I’m forever indebted to Eli Cohen.
forty-three
ryann
“A blow job without swallowing is like a birthday cake without candles. Make the right choice.”
– Sav
“I never want to fold another napkin again, as long as I live.” Winnie stacks a rolled set of utensils on a pile, forever complaining.
I still have tables and my own work to do, so I haven’t plopped down to join her yet, but I am thoroughly enjoying her bitching and moaning every time I walk past her in the booth.
“You could be filling ketchup bottles. Or the salt,” I remind her with a smirk, a task that’s even worse than the silverware.
“I think I’ll stick with this, thank you very much.”
The football game is on. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but Kyle throws a massive fit if we want to have another program playing, his school spirit strong.
He’s leaning against the griddle, eyes glued to the TV mounted in the dining room, squinting as if that’s going to help him see the monitor better.
“Oh, damn!” he shouts, covering his mouth with a fist. “Oh, shit.”
I refuse to glance up.
The occasional mention of Dallas Colter’s name is plenty for me to bear—I don’t want to be a selfish brat and insist that Kyle turn the game off because I can’t stand looking at Dallas’s lying face.