Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She hops off the counter and leads me upstairs, chatting nonstop about the neighbors, the gym, and how Cash once tried to make oatmeal in a rice cooker and nearly set off the smoke alarms.
My room is at the end of the hallway. It’s bigger than I expected, giving me primary bedroom vibes with its hardwood floors, en suite bathroom, and large window overlooking the backyard. Best of all, the ceiling fan doesn’t rattle ominously when I flip it on like the one in my last apartment.
My boxes are piled in neat stacks.
“Home sweet home,” Nova announces, waving her arms like she’s presenting me to my own personal game show prize.
I flop onto the bed, which someone—likely her—has already made up with fresh sheets and a comforter.
“I could cry,” I mumble.
“You’re allowed,” she says, settling next to me and nudging my shoulder with hers.
We sit there in silence for a moment, the good kind. The kind that only exists between two people who have seen each other through bad haircuts, emotional meltdowns, and karaoke nights gone horribly wrong.
“Do you want to have lunch or something?” Nova finally asks, perched on the edge of the bed like she’s trying not to bounce. “Or should we start unpacking?”
I roll onto my back, arms splayed wide across the mattress like a starfish that just gave up.
“No, no—you go ahead and go home. I think I actually want to take a nap. Explore the house later, maybe?”
“You sure?” she asks, though she’s already halfway to standing, one foot practically out the door. “I can stay. I didn’t have anything else planned today except your arrival.”
I snort. “Tempting. But I’ll be okay. You go live your freshly engaged life. Go stare at your ring in different lighting or whatever it is giddy fiancées do.”
Nova smiles, all dimples and quiet worry, and I feel a little guilty for kicking her out.
She studies me, head tilted. “Alright. But you text me if you need anything. I mean it.”
“I’m good,” I say, waving her off with a lazy flap of my hand. “Promise.”
She gives me one last squeeze, the kind that lingers even after she’s let go, and then turns toward the hallway. She pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by soft afternoon light, fingers brushing the frame like she’s leaving a blessing behind.
“This place is going to be good for you,” she says, voice low. “I can feel it.”
I can feel it, too.
But the second the door clicks shut behind her, the silence wraps around me like a weighted blanket—dense and oddly comforting. No city noise. No footsteps overhead or the sound of someone else’s TV bleeding through the wall. Only the faint hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional creak of a house settling into its bones.
My new beginning smells like fresh paint, sun-warmed wood, and leftover cardboard from moving boxes. It smells like clean slates. Like possibility.
“Ahhh.” The suburbs…
I press a palm to the wall next to the bed, warm from the sun. “Be kind to me,” I whisper.
Here’s to new beginnings.
My lids are heavy; it’s been a long day and all I did was drive.
Eight hours of caffeine-fueled highway miles, snack wrappers, and nervously singing to myself just to keep the anxiety from swallowing me whole.
Now, finally horizontal, in a room that smells vaguely like lemon cleaner and hope, I let my limbs go slack.
I close my eyes. “Just for a few minutes.”
turner
. . .
Iam dead on my feet and want to crawl into bed.
Turning my neck from side to side, it feels permanently cricked from trying to sleep in a plane seat designed by a sadist, only reclining one inch. We took a red-eye home, and the entire team looks like we’ve been spit out of a blender as we shuffled through the airport this morning like zombies.
We won our game.
Best one of the season so far, no question. Tight, physical, aggressive in all the right ways. I played like a man possessed—two assists, one goal, and a beauty of a block in the third that brought a tear to coach’s eye.
Kidding.
That man is stone-cold and smiles for no one.
This was the kind of win that keeps you going. The kind that makes the bruises worth it. The early flights. The cold tubs. The entire lifestyle of broken sleep and banged-up knuckles.
If I could just crawl into bed and die there for a few hours, I’d be money.
As I pull into the driveway, shoulders tight and still wired from the game and too much caffeine, the first thing I notice is movement coming from the kitchen window.
The house is dark except for a faint glow from the kitchen window.
I blink, rub my eyes, and lean a little closer to the windshield. For a second, I assume it’s just someone forgot to turn off a light. Then I see it again—movement. A shadow of a human walking past the island, pausing in front of the fridge.