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)
King of the Couch: You’re killing me, Nine.
Streaker: By the way, you said at the gym you were sending someone a dick pic, but I don’t see one on my phone. Better not be another guy you’re sexting.
I smile, digging his declaration too. Beck’s jealous side is so stinking cute.
King of the Couch: Is that your way of saying you want a dick pic?
Streaker: I mean, I wouldn’t object to one.
King of the Couch: I’ve created a monster.
Streaker: Ha. That is probably true.
I hop off the stool, head to the second floor, and conduct a thorough search. I snap a pic of Taco napping on the floor of my shower and send it along.
King of the Couch: Here you go. He’s a dick.
Streaker: I have so many questions. Starting with—why is your cat in the shower?
King of the Couch: What came before the big bang? What is dark matter? What makes us human? I dunno, dude. He’s a cat. Any other questions?
Streaker: Yes, as a matter of fact. How big is your shower?
I lean against the sink, smiling.
King of the Couch: Big enough for two.
Streaker: So, you and the dick, then?
Rolling my eyes, I laugh, then reply.
King of the Couch: Yes, for me and my cat.
I’m enjoying the flirting so much. Maybe too much. I tell myself just one more note.
King of the Couch: Or, for me and a cat charmer.
I fire that off, a little amped up. But my phone is quiet for a minute. Maybe that’s the end of our convo. Too bad. Then, because the universe sometimes delivers, my phone dings.
Streaker: If you asked, I’d say yes.
I sigh with too much longing. I love it when he’s direct. But I love it too much.
King of the Couch: You know I want to ask. But I have to say good night.
Streaker: Good night.
I turn off my phone. Whether he’s a dick charmer or a cat charmer, I’ve got to resist the temptation of the guy with the new name.
20
EVERYTHING SUCKS
Beck
Sunday sucks.
We lose our first game of the season, and everything is awful. Our supposedly mighty offense only puts up seven meager points, courtesy of my inability to move the ball.
My stomach churns with worry. The team is going to hate me. Coach will rip my head off. I trudge off the field, making my way to the locker room alone.
I beeline for my stall, trying to avoid everyone.
Like Carter, who’s chatting with Hayden about construction near the Bay Bridge.
What? They’re not talking about my shitty game?
I duck past Isaiah and Evan, who are debating the Cougars’ chances for the World Series.
Am I in an alternate universe? Maybe this is the calm before they lay into me.
A minute later, Coach Greenhaven pushes open the door to the locker room and paces down the row of pro ballers. “You don’t need me to tell you that wasn’t our best game. Because you know it. And you know what I want—better focus next time,” he says, and I half expect him to stop and stare daggers at me with shrewd gray eyes. But he doesn’t laser in on his quarterback. He’s talking to everyone. “Step it up this week, and let’s get back on track,” he says, then cracks a sliver of a smile. “See you at practice tomorrow.”
He leaves.
After I shuck off my jersey, Carter swings by, slugs my shoulder, and gives a sad smile. “Next week, bro.”
From across the room, Hayden nods my way. “It’s one game.”
Holy shit.
This team is such a . . . team. They come together even after a loss.
“Let’s grab some grub, ’kay?” Carter asks Hayden and me.
The kicker hums in consideration. “If I can pick this time.”
“Fair enough,” Carter says.
And that’s that.
A little later, we head to dinner together. The meal and the company make losing a little better.
But once I’m alone in my home, I feel like a failure all over again.
Despite the reassurance from Coach and my teammates, my mind screams you suck. My stomach roils, churning up the seared salmon I just ate.
I clutch my stomach, run to the kitchen, and grab a glass of water. I down some to try to settle my nerves.
What’s wrong with me?
I set down the glass, and the feeling starts to fade. But my heart still pounds painfully in my tight throat.
I pace my kitchen, trying to walk off the rising panic, drying my damp palms on my jeans.
I’ve never panicked after a game. Why would I? The score is finished. The game is done. And I haven’t felt this anxious since that first media event I did with Jason more than a year ago when he saved my ass.
So why now?
Why, fucking universe, why?
I close my eyes and clench my fists.
You know why.
Oh, shit. That’s it. My eyes fly open.
I’m not freaking out over the loss. I’m spiraling out because tomorrow I have to be on-air for Monday Morning Quarterback.