Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
But, of course, my brain has to go into overdrive, analyzing every possible outcome, replaying every conversation he and I have had, and it’s driving me nuts in the process.
It’s like a mental loop that won’t stop, and I’m stuck in this cycle of doubt and frustration.
Childhood friend.
Ugh. Why can’t I let this go?
I realize it’s stupid and small.
Drew probably has no idea that he said a single thing to hurt me or make me feel insignificant, as if we haven’t been wrung through the wringer lately!
No clue that I’m over here caught up in a tornado of emotions, trying to keep my cool on the outside. I mean, I’ve been acting like I have my shit together—everything is fine. I’m fine. We’re good.
But deep down, it’s a different story.
Guess I’m more insecure than I thought I was, and it’s not fair to him that I’m not sharing.
But do guys want to hear our thoughts? Don’t the words “What are you thinking, what’s on your mind,” make their dick shrivel up?
Ha.
Now the more I try to turn my brain off, the more things are creeping back in, mocking me for being so damn... well, childish.
Petty.
Like seriously? Is this what adulting feels like? Because if it is, I want a refund.
So what if he called me a childhood friend. That’s what I am.
Sort of.
Okay fine, not really, we were never friends. He was friends with my brother, but maybe in his brain, it’s the same thing.
I catch myself stealing glances when he’s not looking, then today, watching him play in the football game…was nothing short of surreal.
Confession: it was my first time in a college football stadium. How horrible is that? A Texas girl who grew up on Friday Night Lights has never been to a college game? When most of her brother’s childhood friends ate, drank, and dreamed the game? Including my brother?
Including Drew.
His brothers.
A first for me.
The way Drew moved on that field; the confidence radiating from him was like witnessing a whole different side of him because with me he gives me room to make the decisions, let me seduce him, let me…boss him around a bit.
This was different.
It turned me on.
The Colter Boys were in their element, and suddenly, I got what all the fuss was about. The way he effortlessly caught the ball, calling plays, light on his feet.
The crowd’s cheers.
The adrenaline in the air.
The electric atmosphere.
Every time Drew made a play—or he made one with his brother—excitement rippled through the stadium, and I found myself on my feet screaming with everyone else.
And all this time, he isn’t sure he wants to keep playing the game when it’s clear he was born for this.
They both were.
It made me realize how much passion he pours into everything he does and how he embraces challenges with his whole heart, whether it’s his choice or not.
So, here I am, stuck in this limbo of wanting to tell him how I feel and wanting to pretend things are good. Fine.
It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between taking that leap of faith and retreating to safer ground.
But hey, at least I have my pride, right?
Yeah, like that’s comforting when all I want to do is throw it out the window and let my emotions run wild, which could just be the hormones.
Childhood friend?
Far from it.
Why isn’t there a playbook for this stuff? A step-by-step guide to navigating these feelings without feeling like I’m stumbling through a minefield and fucking everything up in the process.
CHAPTER 56
DREW
THE BEST RELATIONSHIP IS THE ONE YOU NEVER EXPECTED TO BE IN.
I’m so fucking tired.
1. Because we were out kind of late last night, considering I had a game today.
2. I’m tired from the game, having taken a few hits I wasn’t counting on.
I know Tess wants to talk to me, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth—not that she’s brought anything up, but we went to sleep tonight not talking after spending a quiet evening in bed, watching TV like a couple of old people who don’t have a life.
Not like two people who are crazy about one another and have just started dating.
Why is this so fucking hard?
Because you got her pregnant before you took her on a proper date, you fucking moron.
She’s entitled to be moody.
Moody.
Is that all this is?
My eyelids are heavy, and the last thing I hear is Lana, the talking, judgey cone from Too Hot to Handle—a show about singles living on an isolated island for two weeks. They aren’t allowed to have sex, kiss, make out, or get sexually physical in any way, shape, or form—and if they do, they lose exorbitant amounts of money each time.
Cameras follow their every movement.
Every touch.
The hostess announces that two contestants kissed, costing the group two thousand dollars. The other contestants argue about being betrayed.