Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I was aware that the sweet reality of Thomas was a far cry from the no-nonsense professor in my X-rated fantasies. It seemed logical that the best way to get him out of my system was to see him again. But if he didn’t call me, that wouldn’t happen.
He was going to call, right?
I hoped so.
But I didn’t hear from him Monday.
Or Tuesday.
Or Wednesday.
I erased biomolecular science from my Google history Wednesday evening. And Thursday morning, I deleted the PhDs in physics tab, finally conceding defeat.
He wasn’t going to call.
I was more disappointed than I cared to admit. I kept my phone on vibrate in my back pocket, foolishly checking it every time it buzzed.
Buzz buzz.
You have a package waiting at your local UPS store.
Buzz buzz.
You’re due for your next dental appointment.
Buzz buzz.
Please vote Yes on Proposition—
That was enough of that. I put my phone to silent mode and was about to set it on my credenza just as a new message popped up.
Hi Noah, it’s Stefan. I’m not sure if you got my previous message. I’d really like to talk to you sometime. Call or text me at your convenience. I hope you’re doing well.
I stared at the message for a long moment, starting when Darcy announced that my next client had arrived. I tilted my chin in acknowledgment and set my cell down, hating the slight tremble in my hand. Trust me to conjure the wrong man. I was hoping for a sexy professor and got an ex instead. No, thanks. I deleted the text and pasted a smile on my face for my client.
It was time to get back to reality.
One of the things I loved about my profession was that I didn’t have time for navel-gazing. Hearing about other people’s vacations, exes, and sex lives kept me occupied through three haircuts and a complicated dye job involving three shades of blue. I listened intently to endless stories, joked around, and played therapist as per usual. At five o’clock, I cleared my station and waved adieu to Jase, Easton, and Darcy.
I doubted anyone noticed that I was preoccupied. But I was.
Thank God for soccer.
“Yo, Burns! Are you thinking about passing the ball anytime soon?” Jeff, our goalie, called from his position in front of the net.
Fair question. I sprang into action, signaling a play to my teammate before delivering a killer cross-field pass. I ran toward the goal, dodging a defender, careful not to go offside. If Rick remembered the drill, I wouldn’t have to look up to know the ball would be coming my way in three, two, one—goal!
I pumped my fist in the air, then turned to Jeff. “Was that what you had in mind?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused, scooping up the ball and tucking it under his arm. “Show off.”
I hopped around to keep warmed up and squinted at the team gathered at the opposite end of the field. “Relax, Jeffy. This is just a scrimmage and if memory serves, the Jaguars suck.”
Rick jogged over, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun as he joined us. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. They lost three guys and supposedly replaced them with some real talent. One of them played pro in Chicago and the other two were college superstars. You might know ’em, Noah.”
“Doubtful.”
Although it wasn’t impossible. Not to brag, but once upon a time, I’d been an amazing bench warmer for a professional squad in Miami. However, according to my coaches, I’d had the potential for greatness before my life had unceremoniously gone tits up.
The point was, I’d played real soccer. I’d traveled the world and rubbed elbows with some of the greatest athletes in the sport. It was hard to explain the rush that came from being in a max-capacity stadium with ninety thousand screaming fans cheering your team on. Even from the sidelines, it was awe-inspiring. A dream come true.
My dream hadn’t panned out, but I’d learned a lot and had put a nice chunk of money in the bank. No one here really cared about that, though.
My rec league teammates were an odd mix of successful LGBTQ businessmen and Hollywood wannabes who showed up for biweekly practices, scrimmages, and a handful of organized games for the fun of it. Some were reliving youthful glory days, some wanted the exercise, and others liked the idea of playing a team sport in a safe space.
The point was…this was for fun.
“Whatever. We can beat these guys,” Jeff enthused. “And if we win, Coach is buying the first round at Pizza Tavern.”
I stepped aside when a few more teammates joined us. “That’s not much of an incentive. Their beer is flat, and the pizza tastes like cardboard.”
“But the eye candy is fantabulous,” one of our midfielders piped in.
We chuckled, stretching our limbs in our makeshift huddle as we discussed pizza joints in the area, ranked primarily by their sexy staff.