Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
I don’t even remember what started the argument in the locker room. Just normal trash talk at first. I ignored him, which only pissed him off further. He grabbed my arm when I wouldn’t pay him any attention. I shoved him off me. Told him he was a loud, whiny prick. Then he spit out that line about my mother and I snapped.
I don’t regret it. Even now, having to endure a bunch of strangers asking me about it in a press conference, I don’t regret wiring that asshole’s jaw shut.
And I’m going to enjoy every second of beating him tonight.
FIRED UP WITH JOSH TURNER
EXCERPT FROM OWEN MCKAY INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT
ORIGINAL AIR DATE: 4/22
© THE SPORTS BROADCAST CORPORATION
OWEN MCKAY: YOU KNOW, JOSH, I SORT OF RESENT THAT QUESTION. Briar University just won the National Championship. Shouldn’t that be what we’re focusing on right now? What we’re celebrating? Why don’t you ask me how it feels knowing my little brother scored the winning goal in the Frozen Four? Because I’ll tell you—it felt damn good.
JOSH TURNER: I get where you’re coming from, and I certainly don’t begrudge their achievement. It’s a great feat. I’m simply reading questions from the live chat, Owen. The audience is asking this, not me.
MCKAY: Understood, but neither me nor my brother owe your audience, or anyone else for that matter, a comment regarding our father. We were both young when he went to prison. We haven’t had contact with him since, and we don’t ever plan to. We also have no interest in rehashing our past with the world. And yes, I feel comfortable speaking for my brother right now.
TURNER: I see… Hmm… Hank Horace from Tennessee wants to know if you can comment on the current state of the justice system in America, specifically the parole process—
MCKAY: No. Next question.
TURNER: All right… Oh, here’s a fun one. What is your go-to beauty routine, Sandy Elfman from California is asking. Are there any men’s products you would recommend?
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
GIGI
Your husband
“I THINK IT’S WEIRD THAT YOU’RE MARRIED, AND I’M NEVER GOING to understand it,” Mya declares as she watches me wander around our common room in search of my keys.
“It’s weird, yes, but eventually it will stop being weird and you’ll realize it makes perfect sense.”
She stubbornly shakes her head. “You’re twenty-one. Who gets married when they’re twenty-one? This isn’t the Middle Ages!”
“I’m pretty sure the chicks in the Middle Ages got married when they were, like, twelve. I’m a spinster compared to them. My mother would be fainting with relief, and Dad would be getting the smelling salts if they managed to marry off their old maid daughter.”
But I get it. We’re young. And it’ll definitely take a while for all my friends to get on board. The only one who seems totally unruffled by my elopement is Diana, but nothing ever ruffles her. She’s already talking about double dates with her and Sir Percival. Somehow those two are still together, though he’s sounding more and more controlling the more details she gives about him. I don’t love that.
“Oh my God, where are my keys!” I groan in frustration.
“Oh, is that what you were looking for? They’re right there.”
I glare at her in outrage and walk over to snatch them up. “You could have saved me so much time right now.”
“Where are you going? Plans with the hubby?” she mocks.
“Nope. I got my sports marketing and psychology papers back on Friday and aced both, so I’m treating myself to an afternoon at the butterfly gardens.”
An hour later, the car’s parked, my membership card’s been scanned, and I’m walking into my favorite place on earth. I stroll the paths for a while, enjoying the humid breeze and rainbow of wings flapping all around me. I smile when I hold out my hand and a blue morpho flutters down to perch itself on my finger. This is as close as I’ll ever get to being a Disney princess, and it’s glorious.
I admire how the butterfly’s lustrous wings reflect in the sunshine streaming through the glass walls.
“You have such a good life,” I tell him. “You don’t have to write exams or decide if you want to take a summer school course so you have a lighter workload next fall. You just get to fly around in here all day. Play with your friends. Drink your nectar.”
Then it suddenly occurs to me maybe he wouldn’t want to be trapped in here. Maybe he wants to be out in the great big world beyond the conservatory, surrounded by a million things that could kill him. Like, I’ve seen Bergeron snatch a butterfly out of the air with his jaw and eat it whole.
“Would you want to be eaten if it means having your freedom?” I ask the blue morpho in dismay.
I hear a startled cry from a child nearby. Her mother scowls at me and takes her hand. Marches her away from me.