Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Part of me wonders what Hayes is doing.
And Benny.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Grady says, voice shredded. “I’m trying so hard to make a good impression.”
No worries. “You’re being such a gentleman.”
“Am I?” He smiles against my lips. “Because all I can think about is touching you.”
“Less thinking. More doing.”
I need to know—for science.
His palm drifts under my sweater, heat to heat, dragging the fabric up my ribs, palm cupping me through the lace of my bra—teasing me—thumb brushing over the hardened peak of my nipple till I gasp and arch into his hand. Grady’s fingers ease beneath the thin lace, skin on skin, beneath my shirt.
“You’re unreal.”
“You’re very real,” I murmur, sliding a hand under his shirt to rake my nails lightly down his back. Goose bumps chase my touch.
We kiss and breathe and move—nothing but hands and heat and the soft, obscene sound of fabric shifting. He doesn’t rush it; he checks in with his eyes, with his touch. When I start to chase more, he steadies us, kisses me softer until the urgency melts into a deep, delicious throb.
Hope blossoms wide open.
I can do this.
I can get over Hayes, and I’m starting right now.
Chapter 33
Hayes
I tell myself to focus. I’ve been telling myself that for days.
Focus on reps. Focus on film. Focus on getting a rookie center to stop snapping as if he’s shot-putting a live grenade. Focus on Benny’s English worksheet. Focus on anything that isn’t the ache under my ribs with a certain someone’s name on it.
The refocusing works the way a cheap Band-AID works on a deep cut: Not.
At.
All.
I see the drawing Benny drew and left on the counter, and the smile falls off my face; she’s been on a Layla kick, and she doesn’t even realize it.
The page is brimming with curls of script, the way only a little girl writes when she’s trying to be fancy. A figure with long hair, big eyes, a crown that’s clearly a hair clip. Next to her a stick version of me, taller, ridiculous. A smaller stick that’s Benny—lopsided heart on her shirt because she’s always herself in her art. And above the three of us: Home.
Fuck!
I stand there like an idiot, staring down at it, letting the piece of paper tell me what I already know: I am not okay without Layla.
How fucking ridiculous is that? It wasn’t love at first sight; I don’t believe in that shit.
So what is this?
Longing? Loneliness?
I try to logic my way out of it: Preseason nerves. Responsibility. Parenthood. I list all the reasons this isn’t love, but every argument dies when I picture Layla’s mouth tilting when she’s amused or when she looks at me, or the way she knotted herself into my life by being herself.
Soft. Sweet. Bundled in a sweatshirt.
Maybe it isn’t love yet. Fine. Whatever. Call it the start of something I’m not going to lose my goddamn mind over.
Too late.
“Fuck it.” I pull the cell phone out of my pocket and dial the one person who’s going to be pissed I’m bailing on practice tomorrow, needing at least thirty-six hours to do what I’m about to do.
“Coach,” I say when he picks up. It’s abundantly clear I’ve interrupted something, because I can hear pots and pans banging in the background and his wife complaining about him taking a call during family time.
“Make it quick,” he says without greeting me back.
“I need to take a personal day tomorrow.” Tomorrow, a.k.a. practice before our game on Friday night, which is in three days’ time.
Silence.
Not the good kind.
“It’s a family emergency,” I add, which is true in the way I intend to make it true. “I’ll be back for the scrimmage on Friday. I’m taking the red-eye, and I’ll lift before walk-through.”
I’m nervous and I’m babbling. Who Even Am I?
“Are you injured?” He’s cutting to the chase because he doesn’t do small talk or excuses. “Is your kid okay?”
“She’s good. I’m good.” I inhale, then let out a breath. “She’ll be with her best friend for the next night because . . .” Pause. “I have something important I need to do.”
And I hope to God the press doesn’t find out about it.
Another beat.
Coach is deciding whether I’m worth the headache or if he’s going to tell me no.
More complaining in the background. This time, it’s his teenage daughter.
“Don’t make a habit of this,” he says at last. “And don’t turn this day into two days. And don’t show up late on Friday or I’ll fine you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring your playbook on the flight.”
I nod. “Yup. Got it.”
He hangs up the way he does everything: with no fuss.
I pack a carry-on bag with a speed that would be alarming to anyone who didn’t travel often. Sweats, tee, hat. Underwear. That’s it.
I tuck away the drawing of Benny’s. Get on my phone and poke around the Delta website, booking myself a last-minute flight for today and a return flight for early tomorrow morning.