Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
ESPN wants to interview me in two weeks, and they’ve sent the proposed questions to my PR team. They already cut what they saw fit and forwarded the questions on to me so I could shave them down even more. I don’t mind them asking personal questions, but it doesn’t mean I’ll give them anything worthy of printing. They always want to ask about my parents, even though I’ve given the answer a million times: mom passed away, dad’s a shady character but kept a roof over my head until I was old enough to fend for myself. End of story. I suspect this time around they also probably inquired about Shelby, but if those questions were present at the get-go, my team has already scrubbed them on my behalf.
I read through a few of the questions at the top of the list then lose focus as my mind wanders back to this morning when I stood in the hallway of the diner talking to the blonde waitress. I saw that asshole, Patrick he said his name was, watching her while she worked. Everywhere she went, his eyes followed her. I read him for what he was straight off the bat, so when she went off down that hallway and he slid off his stool to follow her, I went after them. Not soon enough though. No, I was fighting my instincts at first, telling myself I was reading too much into the situation, but when I turned that corner and caught him hurting her, I saw red. I might not have had the best childhood, but even I know you don’t put your hands on a woman without her consent.
When he let go of her and turned to introduce himself to me, I couldn’t look at him, much less speak to him. I would have done something I regretted. I’d have grabbed him by the neck and slammed him back against the wall, squeezing his airway until he knew how fucking serious I was. I didn’t let my blood boil over though. I let him pass and kept my focus on her, the one who truly mattered in the situation.
Who is she to me? No one, and yet here I am, thinking about her for the hundredth time today. I wish I’d pushed her for more information, pleaded with her to tell me the full story. How badly is he hurting her? How far would he have taken it had I not interrupted?
Fuck.
I close my laptop and decide I’ll finish my work later. I need to get to sleep because tomorrow before our early-morning practice, I have somewhere to be.
There’s no one else out front when I pull up and park at Dale’s in the morning. It’s still dark outside so it’s easy for me to look through the windows of the diner and spot the blonde waitress moving behind the counter, opening up the restaurant all by herself. I sit for a second, watching her while she works. I want my reaction to her to cool off, but it hasn’t. Far from it. My heart started pounding the moment I spotted her.
Her pale blonde hair is loose and wild, like the kind of hair they try to sell girls with all that beach spray shit. She bends down then pops back up, carrying a huge canister for brewing iced tea. She turns to face my direction for the first time as she plops it on the counter, and I take her in with a strained tightness in my chest.
I know that as beautiful as she is from this distance, it pales in comparison to seeing her up close. Yesterday, when she bent over me to set down my breakfast plate, I took in the details. She has a hundred tiny freckles that dot her tan face, clustered across her nose and cheekbones. They’re at war with her pale blue eyes to be her most prominent feature, but from way out here, I can’t see them. I see the more obvious details: her lithe frame, her shapely legs, her all-out sex appeal.
God, she’s young though, and sitting out here makes me feel like a pervert. Hell, maybe I am, but I can’t make myself stop looking at her. It’d be hard to explain to someone else just how specifically I crave her. They’d confuse themselves with the fact that I barely know her, that we’ve barely said two words to each other, and that’s fair, but they don’t know the rest of it. They aren’t inside me, feeling this rush. They aren’t in my head as every single thought seems to hinge on how it’s possible that this girl, out of every girl I’ve seen in the last few months, is the one who could bring me back to life.