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)
His dark eyes give nothing away.
“Hey,” he says with a chin nod.
That’s all.
Just a hey.
And I want so much more.
13
THE BUFFER ZONE
Jason
A marching band leader’s energy radiates off Megan today in the studio. She’s been on fire for the last eighteen minutes, and she looks from Beck to me and back. “And now, are you guys ready to quarterback each other?”
I stifle a laugh. I know she said that last week, but it’s hitting me now that it sounds vaguely dirty. “Let’s do it,” I say.
“I’m ready,” Beck seconds.
Megan starts with the guy across from me. “Beck, the Hawks won, but what’s your post-game take on Jason’s first-quarter performance?”
Oh, this is gonna be good. I chucked throw after incomplete throw in my weak-ass opening drive. “Yes, Beck. Tell me more about how I drove the ball,” I say.
They want chemistry, after all, so I’ll play it up.
Beck’s all matter-of-fact as he answers: “You need to come out more aggressive against challenging defenses.”
Oh. Well, excuse me. I bristle, not expecting that sort of feedback. That’s the shit scouts rate you on before they draft you. “What would you have done then?”
“Go for a long pass,” he says, like a thoughtful professor evaluating a paper. “Open with an explosive play rather than saving those just for the end.” Then he smiles as if he’s hiding the holy grail behind his grin. “Or maybe not. Sometimes you need short passes.”
Wait. Hold on. He’s doubling back on his own advice? Is he tripping over his words again?
“So, go long? Or go short? Which is it?” I ask.
But that smile of his becomes more . . . wicked. He snaps a finger. “I remember now. My advice is this—be sure to complete the pass. Doesn’t matter if it’s long or short.”
Nice. Of course, the dude isn’t going to blab his strategy in front of an audience, let alone a rival. Here I was ready to come to his rescue, and he burned me before the entire city.
“Ouch. I need some aloe,” I say. King of Dad jokes strikes again.
“CVS is having a sale. I’ll get you some,” Beck says drily.
Megan turns to me. “Jason, what tips do you have for the second-year starter?”
A whole mess of them. Starting with you can’t one-up me here.
“That’s easy.” I take a beat to set up my review of his on-field performance yesterday, which was, annoyingly, damn good. “Staying power. That’s what you’ll need to work on, Cafferty. It’s a long season, and you don’t want to rest on your laurels three games in. You’re going to need a lot more stamina.”
Megan nods approvingly. “A fair point. Thank you, guys. It’s a pleasure having you two on the show. Be sure to tune in again for next week’s Monday Morning Quarterback.”
Megan hits the end button, then blows out a satisfied breath. “Nice work, guys. That was even better than last week.”
“Glad you liked it,” I say. I’m hoping the ratings shoot higher this week too. Nadia will be so psyched.
“I can’t wait to see the photos from the shoot today,” Megan adds.
“I thought it would be the three of us.”
She laughs, waving a dismissive hand as she heads to the door. “No one wants to see my picture on ads and billboards. They want to see the two stars. So it’ll be you guys and the photog.”
As she grabs the door and trots out, those words hang heavily in the air, as if someone turned down the background music. The only thing I can hear is the drumbeat of . . . you guys and the photog.
Of course, I knew a photographer would be present at a photo shoot, but I thought Megan would be a buffer between Beck and my desire for him.
I adjust to the new expectations for the shoot. Just Beck and me and the guy behind the camera telling us to move closer to each other.
Once I set down the headphones, I check the location for the shoot in my email. “We need to go to Crissy Field,” I say, then meet Beck’s gaze. His expression is neutral, the way it’s been this entire morning. Maybe he’s not having the same wild thoughts as I am. “We’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes. See you there?”
“Sure. I’ll grab a Lyft,” he says, heading to the door too, a canvas bag in his hand.
“You don’t have a car?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I leased one in Los Angeles, and the lease ended when I was traded. I haven’t bought one yet. So . . .”
Ah hell. It’s not like we’re going to make out at stoplights or feel each other up as I drive. “I’ll give you a ride, Caff,” I say, making my way to the hall.
“You sure?” he asks as he follows alongside me.