Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“I am not doing that. It’s rude.”
“Have you officially had the talk?”
“What talk?”
I wave a hand in the air. “You know—the talk. The one where you say, ‘Are we girlfriend boyfriend? Are we seeing other people or just banging each other?’ That talk.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “People do that?”
How the hell should I know! “Seems like it would have been a good idea.”
“Well, no. We didn’t have that talk…”
“And you said you barely have sex?”
“I mean, there’s no time.”
No time to have sex?
I hold up my hand, stopping in my tracks. “Did you have sex with her?”
I realize it’s none of my fucking business what goes on in his bedroom, but it would shed some light on some of their issues as a couple—again, not that I’m an expert…
Diego hesitates longer than I’ve ever seen any man hesitate.
“No.”
“Are you jokin’ me right now?”
Diego stands there looking like a wet turd. “I’m just not feeling it, man—she’s giving me sister vibes.”
Oh shit. Sister vibes?
Yikes.
That’s a huge problem—but not my problem.
It’s his.
“Jesus Christ, kid, and you let it go two months before you’re going to say something to her?”
“She’s too nice. I don’t know how to tell her.”
Too nice?
What the fuck does that even mean?
I know most guys like to date bitches. They love a girl with an attitude problem, big tits, and a mouth that sucks, so I get it. I get how he wouldn’t want to continue dating someone who’s too nice, but I’m not sure what that actually means.
I clamp my giant paw on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you how. You rip off the Band-Aid in one pull. Do yourself a favor and send her a text. You’ll never have to look her in the face again.”
“My mom would kill me if she knew I broke up with a girl in a text message,” he mutters.
“So you plan on running to your mama to tell her you broke up with a girl?” I scratch my beard at that. “Does she even know you’re datin’?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up about it and stop being a chickenshit.”
Diego opens his mouth.
Snaps it shut.
Opens it again. “Please?”
I can’t freaking believe this guy! I just called him a chickenshit and he wants to keep yammering away?
“You think sending a henchman is somehow better?”
“What’s a henchman?”
I stare at him blankly. “Me. I’m a henchman.”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “It seems like the sensitive thing to do.”
“Sensitive my ass.” I shake my head, disgusted. I walk away from him again, pushing through the door to the long hall leading to the parking lot.
“I meant not breaking up with her in a message. I didn’t mean it was sensitive breaking up with her by hiring you to do it.”
Not willing to drop the subject, Diego continues to tail me—as if I don’t have enough shit on my plate as it is.
“Let me give you a little advice. If you don’t have the balls to tell a girl you’re not interested, you don’t have any business being on a team with us.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.”
I stop again, spinning on my heels. “The hell it don’t. We have to trust that you’re being honest with us, that you have the guts to stand up for what’s right, what’s wrong, and contribute with new ideas. You don’t get to be the team captain by silently sitting by and watching shit happen to you—you go out and make it happen. You take the good and the bad, and you make it work in your favor. You swallow the crap, take the heat, make hard choices.” I point at my own chest. “That’s what it takes to be a leader.”
“See! Exactly!” Diego has a giant grin on his dumb face. “That’s why I came to you with this. I don’t trust anyone else.”
I want to slap myself in the forehead. “Jesus Christ, you’re missing the point.”
This guy is exasperating.
“No, I’m not.” He hurries to catch up with me, the stark corridor beneath the stadium where we’ve been working out today a long and deserted one. Not too many people around since it was just special teams, thank God. I don’t need anyone overhearing this jackass asking me to break up with his girlfriend for him.
Diego puts his hand on my forearm as I’m about to open the door to the outside. “Bro. I’ll pay you.”
He’ll pay me?
Well, shit.
I’m not broke by any means, but I have a few expensive hobbies that my brother doesn’t exactly want to bankroll with my allowance, plus a Star Wars habit I can’t quit—among other things.
It’s not as if I can have a regular job while I’m playing college football.
They don’t allow it.
There is no time.
Now that I have an agent, I can do gigs and endorse products—and get paid for it—but it’s not like I can walk into the movie theater in town and tell them I want to pick up a night shift.