Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
She snaps her eyes back up at me. “What?”
“I don’t think she’s exaggerating at all. I think she may be spot on.” Looking at the slight frown between her brows, I add, “About how special you are.”
Those silver eyes of hers, which were fraught with embarrassment until now, narrow.
Somehow I knew they would.
Not to mention, defiance flashes through them like it did yesterday and for some reason, my lips twitch again. Maybe because people have a hard time looking me in the eyes, let alone letting their feelings show.
But not her.
Not Bronwyn Littleton, the artist.
“Callie’s just being kind, but thank you,” she says then, her voice soft as before but more confident. “She’s talked a lot about you too. About how amazing you are. The best big brother a girl could ask for. But she forgot to mention one thing.”
“And what would that be?”
She raises her chin at that. “The fact that you’re such an excellent soccer coach. I don’t think I’ve ever had a coach this good.”
She’s brave, isn’t she?
Or foolish.
There’s a very thin line between the two.
Especially when she’s provoking me. A teacher. At a reform school.
I’ve read their bullshit manual and from the looks of it I can make her life miserable if I want to. I can stop her graduation even, which I did threaten her with yesterday and which I have to admit was just an exaggeration.
I wanted to see what she’d do.
But anyway, I don’t need a manual to tell me how to make a student’s life hell. I’m quite good at that anyway. A coach usually is, but still.
Very brave and very foolish.
For now, all I do is throw her a short nod of acknowledgement. “Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t find soccer so boring. And maybe your skills wouldn’t suck so much.”
Because they do.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a worse player in my life before, and that’s saying something because there were some really bad players on the team. Not to mention, my own sister knows nothing about soccer and I’ve seen her kick a ball around in our backyard numerous times.
Both their mouths fall open at my comment and my sister says, “Oh my god, Con. That’s such a rude thing to say.”
“I wouldn’t be such an excellent coach if I didn’t point out my player’s flaws now, would I?” I respond to my sister while keeping my eyes on her best friend.
Whose eyes narrow further at my jab.
“I can’t believe this. And I just said you were the nicest of all our brothers.” Callie turns to her friend. “I’m so sorry, Wyn. Con’s —”
“He’s right,” she cuts my sister off, keeping her fiery eyes on me. “He wouldn’t be. Such an excellent coach. And I wouldn’t be such a good student or player if I didn’t tell him — again — that I have no interest in soccer whatsoever. I’m an artist.”
I stare at her a beat before pushing my hand into my pocket and fishing out that pen of hers.
I offer it back to her and she glances down at it. “Here.”
She looks up at me before taking it from my hand. “Thank you.” Clutching it tightly in her fingers, she says, her voice soft, “It’s my favorite pen.”
I push my hand into my pocket again. “And you probably have it on you twenty-four seven.”
Her silver eyes slightly light up at my comment, reminiscent of what she told me yesterday. “Yes. Just like my sketchpad.”
“Just like your sketchpad.” When she nods, I glance down at it, her sketchpad, before looking up and saying, “Well then, you should get back to it.”
With that, I step back, ready to turn around and leave, but my feet become frozen when I catch sight of something.
Of someone. Her.
They shouldn’t though. My feet shouldn’t freeze. As if I’m surprised, or worse, entranced.
Because I’m neither.
I’m not surprised to see her here. At St. Mary’s. I knew she worked here when I took this job. I also knew that I’d have to see her every day. Five days a week for as long as I worked here as well.
In fact, I saw her yesterday too.
Just like this.
Walking down the concrete path before the first bell, a handbag slung over her shoulder. Yesterday too, she had a bunch of files in her arms that she was juggling, her blonde hair fluttering around her face.
And even though I’m not entranced either, I can’t help but look at her.
Just like I did yesterday.
I can’t help but look at her blonde hair, sleek and short.
As sleek and short as it was back when I knew her. Years and years ago.
It was also soft.
A thick, silky mass you could run your fingers through.
Not to mention, her smooth skin. That frown between her brows as she carries everything in her arms. I can’t help but look at all of that.