Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Cosmo is a women’s magazine, hon,” Miranda corrected.
“Whatever,” Braden said. “He knows what I mean. Jamie, you need to stick to the basketball shorts and snapbacks. That’s what the chicks dig. I’ll bet that’s why Miranda broke it off with you. Matt Foster doesn’t try to be GQ. He dresses like a jock.”
“I dress like a jock a lot of the time,” I pointed out indignantly. “And my body is way hotter than Matt Foster’s.”
That claim actually got Braden to look up from the game long enough to give me an amused look. “The shirts you wear are too tight. Guys need breathing room. And those skinny little pants you wear when we go out are ridiculous.” He elbowed Trey like he’d just made the joke of the century.
“You’re just jealous, Braden. I look damn good in tight t-shirts and Clark Kent glasses.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Miranda nodding in agreement. “Besides, we’ve got to start growing up at some point, man. You think you’re going to wear snapbacks and basketball shorts to your first job? I guess that would be okay if you’re a pro ball player, but that won’t fly in the real world.” I looked to Miranda and then Trey for backup, but they were no help. “Trey, I’m not a nerd, am I?”
Trey laughed. “What’s so bad about that? I’m a nerd, and proud of it.”
“You got that right.” Braden piped up. “College is for partying, man. You’re gonna be forty years old looking back on this time wishing you’d sowed your wild oats like me.”
“Yeah, you think so?” Trey asked him. “I’m okay with that, because when I’m looking back, I’ll be sitting in a nice house counting my money. Meanwhile, you’ll be crying in your beer in some one-room hovel wishing you’d done your homework and taken life seriously.”
Braden waved him away, obviously not buying into Trey’s vision of the future. “My daddy’s got money, man.”
The room was thick with Miranda’s sudden disdain for the turn the conversation had taken. “Sowing your wild oats, huh?” She asked her boyfriend pointedly.
“Figure of speech, babe,” Braden said. Then he let loose with a barrage of virtual gunfire on the video game, jumping to a standing position and pounding frantically on the buttons on his controller. “Motherfucker shot me! Did you see that? We’ve got to get better internet, because this shit is lagging. No way he could have gotten me. Did you guys see that?”
Trey threw up his hands. “Thanks, man. Nice going. You just got me killed.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at me. “I guess this is what they mean by sowing oats? Wearing a hole in the sofa playing video games?”
“Hey, it’s better than going out and banging other chicks,” I pointed out. Miranda didn’t seem too thrilled that I had put that particular thought into words, and I didn’t relish exploring the idea further with her. “Give me that controller,” I told Braden. “Let the master take over. I’ll prove to you there’s no lag.”
“It’s your funeral.” He handed me the controller and headed off to the kitchen. “Anybody want a sandwich?”
Trey raised his hand like he was in class. “I’ll take a PB&J.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Braden said. “Anybody named Miranda want a sandwich?”
Miranda got up and followed him into the kitchen, leaving me and Trey to battle bad guys on the game. I needed some brainless man-fun. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I’d just been dumped.
THAT night, I went to the gym later than usual.
The place smelled of chlorine and sweat. It was a smell I’d come to associate with being healthy, and the second it hit my nostrils, I got a surge of adrenaline. I strode across the crowded space to secure a locker for my cell phone and wallet, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the gym— muscles pumping, men grunting, the clang of heavy weights hitting the floor. Treadmills whirred, ponytails bounced, and sneakers tapped out a choppy rhythm on the treadmill belts. In the background, sneakers squeaked on the basketball court, and children squealed beneath the gushing fountain in the indoor pool, which should have been closing any minute.
My brain shifted into workout mode, and I turned everything else off.
Whether I was straining to eke out that eighth rep on a weight machine, pushing myself to failure, or zoning out on the treadmill for an hour, it was always cathartic. Focusing on pushing my body gave my mind a much-needed vacation. I didn’t have to think about school, or relationships, or whether I could afford to go out with my friends on Friday night. It was just me and the machines, and we had only one goal in mind: physical exhaustion.
When I was almost finished with my Thursday night arm routine, a guy sat down on the machine directly in front of me. It was one of those awkward situations where both of us were forced to stare directly at each other as we worked. I was doing lat pull-downs, and he was on the ab crunch machine. I’d never seen the guy in school. He was slightly shorter than my six-foot height, with light hair and a broader build. I was of the opinion that people who took part in sports had a slightly different musculature than people who only worked out in a gym environment, and this guy had a gym jockey look about him. Not that it wasn’t a good look on him, because it definitely was.