Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I laugh for a few seconds, but my laughter disappears quickly with the unexpected reminder—that the Renegades and their fans are my priority. The fans don’t want me moping for the other quarterback.
“Everything okay?” Bryan asks.
Ah, shit. I quickly clear my expression. “Yeah. I’m great,” I say.
He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry if that was pushy, man.”
My brow furrows. Why would he think that? “It was nice.”
“Cool, cool. My mom’s a shrink. I’m used to her asking are you doing okay all the time.”
Portia’s a shrink? I had no clue about her job beyond landlady, but shrink makes perfect sense. “Now that you say it, that tracks.”
He smiles like he’s proud of her. “She’s a Tarot-card-reading, candle-loving, Renegade-rooting, rainbow-flag-waving therapist. God bless her.” Bryan walks past me and claps my shoulder. “Good to meet you, Beck. You’re having a killer season. Keep it up.”
He heads around to the front door and goes into Portia’s home. From the second-floor window, she waves, bright and buoyant.
All is well in the pecking order of her world.
I’d do well to remember the pecking order of mine. My job is to throw the football.
That’s why I moved to San Francisco. To lead this team, not to fall in love. Besides, football makes me happy, so I’m going to embrace the fuck out of it.
The next day, I do my job on the field, shutting out everything else as I lead my team to victory.
I’m happy, but not as happy as the last time we won, and I celebrated with the guy I now miss so desperately.
On Monday, I can’t avoid seeing him.
Wish I could because there’s no way being near Jason will help me move on. But it’s time for Monday Morning Quarterback, so I better put on my happy face when I walk into the studio.
He’s in his chair already, and the second I see him, my heart thunders. I long for him. His smile, his eyes, his big, warm embrace, his blue shirts that are the color of a sapphire.
I give a chin nod. “Hey, McKay.”
“Hey, Cafferty.”
I settle into the chair and fight like hell to keep my eyes on Megan’s animated face. I ball my hands into fists as we talk about the game. I focus all my energy on keeping still, so I don’t lunge across the soundboard, kiss the breath out of Jason, and say fuck it, let’s find a way.
When it’s time for the two-minute warning segment, Megan whips her head toward me. “Any tips for Jason on his game?”
It’s like the day I met him again, only this time it’s not social anxiety tripping me up. It’s a broken heart. I don’t have any energy left to zing him on-air. “He played well,” I say tonelessly.
Her brows shoot up, and she stares at me wordlessly. Yay, me. I’ve surprised the queen of surprises.
But Jason is never speechless. He leans a little closer to his mic. “Some days, it’s hard to rip apart the other QB when he had such a stellar game,” he says with a cocky grin.
But he’s not cocky.
He’s helpful. He wants the show to succeed. He wants us both to look good. I can see that in his eyes. The guy wants to make everything better. But he can’t make me better. Not this time around.
On Thursday morning, we’re in a warehouse studio in the Dogpatch district, doing the ad for Ding and Dine. Just my ex and me, standing in front of a green screen, shoulder to shoulder, scowling like we hate each other, except when it comes to food delivery services. The food app wants customers to believe the only thing these two rivals could possibly agree on is the awesomeness of Ding and Dine.
Well, I do like the app. Jason used it that morning to get me coffee. My heart wheezes painfully at the memory, but I shake it off. It’s just a food app. It was just coffee.
With a forced smile, I deliver the line Nadia fed us the other day. “Service so good even archrivals can agree,” I say to the camera.
Jason grins too.
“Fantastic! You even looked like you liked each other at the end,” the videographer remarks as she gives a thumbs-up.
Great. We’re aces at pretending. Fan-fucking-tastic.
When the shoot mercifully finishes, I want to bolt. The longer I stay in Jason’s orbit, the greater the chance I’ll blurt out I miss you so much, and I can’t stand being this close without touching you.
But there’s no playbook on how to fake an archrivalry with your ex. So I go through the motions for Ding and Dine, thanking the camerawoman and the producer, then I change out of my team jersey and into a red shirt. I walk out with Jason, eyes front, poker face on, pretending I’m not aching inside.
When we hit the parking lot, and we’re alone, he clears his throat. “So, good game the other day.”