Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Usually, it’s kids and men who geek out when they see me. Unless they’re avid sports enthusiasts, most women couldn't care less or have any idea who I am.
“Always assume someone is watching.”
“That sucks.”
“Well. That’s the reality.”
I hate when he’s right.
“Posey’s number, please.” I’m relentless, and he knows it.
So he gives me the phone number.
At first, I do nothing with it. I don’t call. I don’t message—I just stare at the note in my cell with her name and number on it, committing it to memory like there’ll be a test on it soon.
Then,
Me: Hey, it’s me. Just checkin’ on you ’cause I hadn’t heard back.
Me: You doing okay?
I wait an hour before sending her another one even though the first message does not say delivered, and goes from a blue bubble to green.
Me: I’m sorry I sent that fucking email, Posey. I’m a fucking idiot, okay?
Not delivered.
Green bubble.
Did she get a new phone?
I go online and Google ‘What does it mean when an iPhone message goes from blue to green?’
Answer: it means you’ve been blocked.
Blocked?
But…why?
Technically, I didn’t even do anything wrong, just took the advice from a professional and did what I was told to protect myself.
Protect myself from who?
Posey?
That thought marinates in my brain, swirling round and round and round like a merry-go-round I’m unable to get off.
Protect myself from Posey? How fucking stupid.
Thursday turns to Friday, and I can’t take it anymore.
I also don’t have time to be thinking about this shit, nonstop, all day long. Especially not when I’m training, and someone is throwing a spiral football at my fucking face, or I’m sprinting.
Still, by Saturday—not making peace with her has unsettled me. The whole thing doesn’t sit well, and it’s got me cagey. I know I won’t get it off my mind until I can look her in the eye and give her a piece of my mind. I won’t get it off my mind until she chews my ass out like she loves doing, fire in her eyes, cheeks turning pink.
I get out my phone and search for flights.
Got to get the fuck out of here even though I know walking through the airport and hopping on a plane is a dumb fucking decision. I don’t even care.
“Holy fuck.” My eyes go wide when I see how much it costs for a last-minute flight from Dallas to Chicago. “Thousand bucks? Why don’t they go ahead and bend me right over and fuck me up the ass, Jesus H.”
But I purchase the goddamn ticket anyway.
I purchase it ’cause like I already said: I’m an idiot.
I schedule a driver to pick me up from the airport so I can breeze through and not have to stand in line for a rental, patting myself on the back for forward thinking.
Why am I so nervous?
The only other time I’ve wanted to throw up was my first game as a New York Condor, in the locker room as a rookie. I’d dry heaved over the trash can before Coach slapped me on the ass and told me it was go-time.
I’d been so fucking nervous.
I’m nervous now, watching the app as the driver takes Exit 894 toward the suburbs, tracking my ride so I know how far it is and how long it’s going to take, the minutes slowly crawling by.
Finally, we arrive.
I thank the dude, give him a cash tip, and heft my duffel over my shoulder, planning a sleepover—if she’ll have me.
Shit, I have no idea what I’m going to say as I shuffle up the front walkway and root around for the doorbell she claims is there, finding it hidden amongst the climbing ivy on the brick.
“Guess she was right. Guess I didn’t have to break in.” Ha!
No one comes to the door.
I ring the doorbell again.
Then knock.
I hesitate only a few seconds before me and my duffel round the corner to the back, walking down the driveway to the side of the house and onto the back porch.
Knock.
Knock again, so much knocking.
I scratch at the back of my neck, debating.
Walk to the back of the property and check for the key I’d nailed to an old window shutter and find it empty. Nothing but a rusty hook.
I stride back toward the house and gaze up at the second-story window—the one that had been mine for seven days.
Should I climb through the window like I did before? It’s a proven method and—
“She’s not here.”
Jesus Christ, old lady, do not sneak up on people!
I turn to find Mrs. Galvin glaring at me from her side of the yard, which is nothing new. The old woman is crabby, ruthless, and skeptical of everyone.
“Oh. Hello there, Mrs. Galvin, how are you this evening?”
She purses her wrinkled lips, and I shoot up thanks to my agent for already mailing her those football tickets so I don’t have to hear about it. Then pat myself on the back again for getting her those gift cards to her Skillet Café or whatever the hell it’s called before I’d left.