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)
Lastly, I picked up my favorite necklace, a crude silver Claddagh strung with double strands of black rawhide that tied in the back, leaving the strands hanging free down the back of my neck. The small beads knotted on the end of each strand clacked gently when I moved just right.
The symbol itself, two hands holding a crowned heart, was a nod to my Irish heritage that my mother, and I by way of osmosis, found to be such a source of pride. Mom had given my older sister a Claddagh ring for her sixteenth birthday, and I’d been so jealous. When I turned sixteen, Mom had the more masculine-styled necklace custom made for me. Since that day, I’d rarely gone without it.
I tucked the strands into my collar in back and checked myself out one final time in the mirror. By the time I met my friends in the living room, I looked and smelled like a million bucks. Okay, maybe only a couple hundred bucks since I shopped at Target, but it was good enough to make Miranda raise her eyebrows.
Phillips Arena was hopping an hour before the show was set to begin. Braden drove the Audi carefully through the parking garage, sandwiched in line between two late-model beaters. The ticking sound from one of the engines bounced around deafeningly in the enclosed garage, prompting a familiar tirade from Braden.
“Dammit, why do people drive such hunks of shit? Don’t they have any pride at all? When a car sounds like that, it’s time for the junkyard.”
“Not everyone can afford to buy a new car, sweetie,” Miranda said quietly from the passenger seat.
I sat in the backseat and kept my mouth shut. More power to Miranda for wanting to teach her man a little humility, but I’d lived with him long enough to know he’d always be a spoiled rich brat, bitching from the womb to the tomb about problems he would never have the misfortune of understanding.
His dad gave him everything he wanted, including the three-bedroom condo he and I shared with Trey. Braden had the master suite with his own bathroom, while Trey and I fought over the one in the hall. Not a bad deal, considering Braden’s dad owned the condo and only charged Trey and me a hundred dollars each, plus our share of the utilities, food and expenses.
My parents would shoot me if I lost my killer living arrangement, and I didn’t have sex to barter with like Miranda, so I knew better than to mouth off at Braden too much. Friendship was the only thing I had, and that was a slippery slope at best with a guy like Braden. We’d already lost one roommate when he got a little too pushy, accusing Braden of not doing his part to keep the place clean. That guy had lasted all of one month before he’d been replaced with Trey.
Now the three of us were about to be wrapping up our third school year of living together, all of us juniors, sweating finals that were coming up in three weeks. I’d been worried I wouldn’t be able to come up with a suitable final project for Dr. Washburn’s class, and it counted for fifty percent of my grade. That was why I was so excited about the MMA fight. With this opportunity, my Journalism degree suddenly seemed within reach.
“You’re not sitting with us?” Miranda asked when we were standing in line at Will Call. She sounded disappointed, which in turn seemed to annoy Braden.
“No, babe,” he grated. “He’s here for work, like he told you. Let the guy do his job.”
My job. That sounded good. Grown up.
“What kind of job are you going for?” she asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”
“I’m hoping to be a sports writer, or a publicist for a sports team. Something like that. Maybe even a sportscaster.”
“So you might be on TV?” She bounced excitedly on her toes, her brown eyes twinkling. “I could definitely see your face on TV. You’d be a celebrity.” She turned to her boyfriend. “We’d know a celebrity, Braden. How cool would that be?”
“Name a sportscaster,” Braden challenged her.
“What?” She gave him a blank stare, the smile falling from her face. “I don’t know any.”
“Not such a big celebrity after all, huh?”
I bit my tongue to keep from retorting against the obvious insult. It helped that I understood where his animosity came from; Braden was afraid his girlfriend was attracted to me. For a guy who had so much going for him, he was awfully insecure about his girl.
“I don’t want to be a celebrity,” I said. “I just like the idea of a profession that combines my two greatest loves: writing and sports.”
“Oh.” Miranda nodded politely, the stars fading from her eyes.
“My name is Jamie Atwood,” I said to the girl at the Will Call desk, bending to speak into the hole at the bottom of the window. She checked something on her computer and produced a laminated press pass for me. My heart climbed into my throat as I took the official-looking badge and turned it over in my hand. It may seem cheesy, but to me it was the first sign that I’d almost arrived— was almost a professional.