Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“It’s eleven forty-five,” Topher supplied.
“Ah, no wonder. I’ll pop a frozen pizza in the oven for us. Sound good?”
“Um…sure.”
“Great. Be back in a flash.”
I turned on the oven, then headed down the hall, absently re-tucking the end of the towel. When I was three feet from the master suite and far enough from the great room that I figured it was safe, I dropped it and—
“Holy crap on the cob,” Topher gasped in a low tone I didn’t think was meant for my ears.
I pursed my lips in amusement and barely made it over the threshold before bursting into laughter. That guy was priceless.
I pulled on a pair of gray sweats and a USC T-shirt and inspected myself in the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet. My reflection was kind. I was an athletic man in my prime with dark-brown hair and brown eyes. I supposed most people considered me good-looking. Not that I cared.
The only thing that mattered to me was football. I’d survived my fair share of bumps and bruises and had a few scars to prove it. I’d recovered from a few wicked concussions too. Those didn’t show on the outside, but damn it, they stuck with you. That last one happened nine months ago, and I still wasn’t myself.
“You’re not an idiot. Asking for help is the right thing to do. And if you hate this, you can find something else to do. Do not give up. Do not fail. You’ve got this.”
Pep talk complete, I padded toward the kitchen and pulled a couple of gourmet frozen pizzas from the freezer, presenting them to my guest for inspection. “I have plain pepperoni or let’s see…this one has ham, pineapple, and jalapeño. Want a salad too?”
Topher glanced up from his laptop and shook his head. “No, thank you. Just water, please.”
“You didn’t help yourself,” I scolded without heat.
“We don’t know each other. It didn’t seem right to open your cupboards…even with an invitation to do so.”
“You’re my brother’s friend; that makes you my friend too. Murphy’s law.” I poured him a glass of water, then expertly uncorked a bottle of Pinot.
“That’s not Murphy’s law.”
“Sure, it is. This is my house, my last name is Murphy, therefore I make the rules…and laws.” I slid the water and a glass of wine in front of him, raising mine in a mock toast. “Drink up, buttercup.”
“Thank you, but you know Murphy’s law actually states that whatever can go wrong will go wrong.”
“Story of my life, my friend.” I sipped my wine before setting each pizza on a cookie sheet and slipping them into the oven. “So…where should we begin?”
Topher gestured toward his computer screen. “I figured we should start by outlining which classes you need help with and—”
“All of them,” I admitted, falling onto the barstool beside his. “I’m not sure how much George shared with you, but I’m in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. I got three concussions last season, then got cut from the team. It’s been crickets ever since.”
“They haven’t called you.”
“Nope. My agent told me he’s working on a lead, but it’s August now. The new season is under way, which probably means the writing is on the wall. If they don’t want me, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I have money, but I’m too young to retire. My mom suggested furthering my education, so…here I am.” I spread my arms wide and smiled as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
“I see,” he replied, typing notes on his keyboard. “What did you hope to gain by re-enrolling in college?”
“A degree.”
He continued typing, pausing long enough to roll his eyes at me. “Got that. To what end, though? Do you hope to be a psychologist?”
I barked a laugh. “No fucking way. I would never take advice from me. Unless it’s real estate advice. I’m pretty good at that.”
“So why don’t you go into real estate?” he asked with a frown, still typing away.
“Because I’m biding my time till my agent calls and my life returns to normal.”
Topher knitted his brow. “And normal is a USC education?”
“Well, I went to USC to play football, stayed for two years, then signed on with the Rams. I sat on the bench my first season there, but when I got my shot, I made the most of it. I’d just renegotiated my contract before that last concussion and…whatever.” I shook off the memory, taking another sip of Pinot to clear the cobwebs. “This is a temporary setback. I may not play for the Rams, but I want to play.”
“Why? Concussions shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
“I’m fine,” I said testily as I narrowed my eyes. “What are you typing?”
“Just a few notes.”
“Like what? I haven’t said anything important, and we’re supposed to be getting to know each other.” I peered over his shoulder and read, “Beowulf, Beowulf, Beowulf…what’s that?”