Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Tennessee Miklas: Are you? Seems like you wish this one were another boy.
Laughter.
D’Artagnan Miklas: No, I want a girl as pretty and perfect as you. She’ll play me some women’s hockey.
Ambrosia Mercer: I know you’ve heard of Baylor Sinclair, who took the NHL by storm.
D’Artagnan Miklas: I have, and you’re right. But why are you grinning like that?
Tennessee Miklas: And isn’t that her son watching this interview?
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Ambrosia
I brought my mom and Tía.
To Dawson’s game.
Listen, we’ve all decided I’m a big chicken, right?
Not only did I freak myself out about what to wear, deciding on a pair of fitted Levi’s, a Bellevue Bullies Hockey tee with an oversized Bullies Hockey sweatshirt—yes, I’m aware which sport I’m going to watch, but I don’t own any football gear—and my favorite Timberland boots, but I made myself puke three times from negative thoughts.
Because this thing between Dawson and me has been so good.
Perfect, even.
We’ve only been apart to go to school and for him to work out. He watches me work, he sat in on another episode, where not only did he chitchat with Dart and Tennessee Miklas, but he was spoiled rotten by my mom and Tía. They fed him, they took his clothes out of his duffel and folded them for him, not returning them to the bag. If I hadn’t intervened, they would have put his clothes in my damn closet. Mom was five seconds from Magic Erasing his shoes before I finally stopped her.
Oh, and they called him mija’s chico, which he ate up as soon as he learned it meant my girl’s guy in Spanish.
To the point that while he was driving deep inside me, he grunted roughly in my ear, asking if he was mi chico.
I came.
Hard.
Because he fucking is.
God, he is.
I love him in my space. I love him in my bed. I love the feel of lying against him as we watch TV. He’ll drag a chair from the kitchen to my workspace to sit with me as I work. He doesn’t tell me how to edit my shows, but I do ask him what he thinks. You can tell he’s a fan because he’ll bring up past shows I’ve done and what he liked and didn’t.
One of my favorite things to do is have our computers out to do schoolwork. I tried to wear my headphones so I wouldn’t distract him when I listen to my notes, but he tells me I don’t have to keep them on. I don’t know why that makes me feel good, but it does. He shows me more and more that, to him, my disability doesn’t matter. That feeling is something I wish I could bottle and give to everyone who struggles. I love the way our computers touch just as our feet do, and it’s so sticky-sweet that I should be disgusted. Instead, I’m too happy to feel anything but those sticky-sweet feelings.
I feel like I’m watching one of those corny Hallmark movies, where the girl falls for the hot sports player. He, of course, ignores everyone for her and changes to be the perfect guy, and everyone gags. I know there is that stupid third-act breakup where he’ll end up in a situation that’ll look like he is doing the opposite of what he’s been doing, and maybe I felt like that could happen before. But now, there is no way. I have never felt so valued, appreciated, and seen as I do when I’m with Dawson. The thing is, he’s been the exact same the whole time he’s been trying to get me to date him.
He wants me, and he isn’t shy about it.
But it was easy to think that way in our bubble.
Now, back to why I puked three times.
This is the first time we’ll be public, public. We’ve gone to dinner and to the coffee shop, but I’m going to a Bullies game where my…boyfriend is the starting quarterback against a rival. I’d been fine until he sent me a voice text, asking me to spell out my name for him phonetically because the broadcasting department wanted to make sure they had it right for when they found me in the crowd. When I insisted I’d be in the box with his family, surely they wouldn’t find me, he came back, saying that he knows me, I’ll be in the first row of seats.
Which is what prompted the puking.
All I can think is that everyone on TV will see Ambrosia Mercer, Dawson Sinclair’s girlfriend, and my stomach churns with nerves.
What if they catch me stuffing food in my mouth because, hello, this is a suite and they have a make-your-own-chili-dog bar. Or what if people look at me and think, ew, he could do so much better. Or think I’m only with him because he’s going places. It all makes me so sick, the negative things I thought up, because what if he sees what people say and he decides he thinks the same?