Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Me: Umm… Hmm…
I chew on my lower lip; if I buy a couple’s ticket, I could bring someone. A date.
Kip springs to mind.
Do I have the lady balls to ask him to be my date for something as important as this? What would I say? If I ask him, would he get the wrong idea about it?
I’m pretty sure most of my friends from the department will be bringing dates, and I’d feel less self-conscious if I brought one too.
But Kip?
He’s not really a safe choice; what if he says something off-color and embarrasses me? What if he’s eating and ends up with food in his beard and makes it awkward?
I’ve never seen him in any other setting besides a rugby party and his house.
I’m getting way ahead of myself here, but Tyler keeps blowing up my phone, and I should make a decision.
Me: I guess I’ll do a couple’s ticket.
Tyler: Cool.
His reply annoys me, and I turn my phone over on the counter and resume blow-drying my hair. I’ll think about what to do later—maybe the mood will strike me to ask him after his rugby match today.
I face the mirror, brushing the wet strands aside, and look myself in the eye.
“Kip, would you like to attend a banquet with me?” I ask my reflection. “Just as friends. It wouldn’t be an actual date.” I run a brush through my hair. “Kip, wanna come to a thing with me? No biggie if you can’t. Whatever.”
I sigh. I suck so hard at this.
“Hey Kip, great game—uh, match. So, I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything next Friday, I have this thing I have to be at…”
For some reason, the brush is at my mouth like a microphone, like I’m reporter at the scene of a story. I cringe and set it on the counter.
Maybe I should text him this week. It would certainly be easier. If I wait long enough, he’ll make plans for Friday, and say no, then I’m off the hook.
But if I do and he says no, it will be on my phone, in writing, for all eternity, and I’ll have to see it every time he texts me.
He won’t say no, a little voice inside me says.
Who am I kidding—he’s going to say yes.
He’ll say yes, because I have terrible luck, and then I’ll actually have to take the Neanderthal out in public; no doubt he’ll wear those god awful work boots.
We’ll have fun, though.
Me and Sasquatch.
I groan, smile into the mirror, and hum.
SECOND SATURDAY (At Game)
“The day I just sit here and watch them throw their balls around.”
Teddy
I’m not the only girl here flying solo, but I’m the only one here without a blanket or a chair.
Why didn’t I think to bring one?
I scan the area, searching for a dry spot.
Lower myself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, facing the rugby field. Comb the bodies for Kip, watching for his familiar form among the giants.
I know they’re not all as large as he is, but from this vantage point, they’re all Goliaths. Hairy legs, high sport socks already stained with mud and grass and matching jerseys. Far too many broad chests to count.
And then…
There he is.
Stretching, torso bent, his thick thighs and ass are thrust in my direction. Even in the cluster of broody man children, he stands apart with his air of conceit as he moves to get limber.
Kip has that mop of hair pulled up, twisted at the top of his head, and is wearing a headband—along with a rubber band in his beard too, and that makes my lips curl at the corner.
What the hell is that all about?
I continue to study him.
The mouth guard he’s just popped into place over his teeth. The bright blue cleats digging into the ground. The band around his bicep with the letter C on it.
I didn’t know he was the captain of the team—then again, I’ve never really asked him about it.
“Who are you here to see?” a voice asks from behind me, startling me out of my scrutiny.
I twist around.
Two girls stand with plaid Iowa blankets in their arms, staring down at me curiously.
“We’ve never seen you here before,” one of them says. She has brunette hair and a pleasant smile, and in her right hand she’s clutching a coffee cup. “But figured since you were here alone, you must be dating one of the guys and not just jock-chasing.”
I blush despite the cold. “Oh, um, I’m a friend of Kip Carmichael. He, uh, invited me.”
“Kip Carmichael…invited you.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and four eyebrows shoot up.
I hurry to explain. “We’re friends.”
“Friends. Whatever you sayyyy…” the one with black hair sing-songs. “Mind if we sit? We can tell you all the rules of the game.”
I groan.
More rules.
“I’m Renee,” the brunette says. “And this is Miranda. I’m dating Brian Freeman—he’s number four.” She points a purple fingernail toward the field. “And Miranda is engaged to number thirteen, Thomas Dennison.”