Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
After we scratch that initial itch, the time we spend together in my room is dreamlike, stroking fingers along each other’s skin and talking about everything from our childhoods to secret talents to phobias and fears. We tell secrets. We weave imaginary futures in which we live in a house together. In our imaginations, she leaves every morning to teach kindergarten and I train for my next fight. And we’re happy because we’re together.
Before she leaves my bed and goes back to Beacon Hill, I take her a second time, slower, savoring her, but we have to be quiet, because my sister is home by then. I have to time Grace’s orgasms with the train passing below, so her moans are camouflaged by the loud rattling of the walls.
Daytime is long and unacceptable, because I’m without her. I’m constantly tempted to ditch classes and go pick her up at that fancy prep school, but that’s risky. There’s no way I’m going to mess this up. And if her father finds out about us, if he finds out she’s been coming to Southie every day after school to be with me, he would put a stop to it. No doubt in either of our minds. After everything Grace has told me about her father, I know he expects perfection from her—and I don’t fit that image.
He would see me as a threat to her success.
Girls attending prep schools don’t date amateur boxers from South Boston. They are supposed to date future financiers with more zeroes in their trust funds than I can even fathom.
It makes me insane to even think about it. My Gracie dating someone else.
Marrying someone that isn’t me.
Some prick who can give her everything in the world.
I’d go fucking berserk. I’d die from a broken heart. And yet, who the hell am I to prevent her from having a comfortable life? Because right now, she can’t have that with me.
Not yet, anyway.
I’m going to change that.
I will provide for her. I’ll be her man in every single way she needs.
I just need one chance in the ring with the right opportunity. No one will be able to beat me if a future with Grace is on the line. Not even God himself.
For the tenth time today, I check my phone to see if the boxing manager called, but there’s nothing. Taking a deep breath for patience, I try to pay attention to what the teacher is saying. A couple more hours and I’ll be home with my girlfriend, her slick little pussy wrapped around my dick, milking and squeezing, her gorgeous face flushed from pleasure beneath me. Her nails raking down my back.
Feeling eyes on me, I glance to my right and some girl waves her pinkie at me. I almost laugh. Seriously? Grace’s name is written in Sharpie on my forearms, my neck, my hands. I don’t even bother acknowledging this other person. Not now and not when I’m walking out of class and she calls my name. I just keep walking, visions of Grace flashing in my head like a slideshow. She is the only one for me, forever. Period. I’m actually annoyed that someone tried to catch my attention, because I know Grace wouldn’t like it—and I don’t do shit she doesn’t like. Ever.
On my way to Physics, my phone shakes in my pocket and I whip it out, my chest cinching tight when I see the manager is calling. Please let this be something. I hit talk and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Whitlock, it’s Silvio. How’s it going?”
That’s a complication question. On one hand, I’m happier than I ever thought possible. On the other, I’m waiting for that happiness to be compromised, worrying about it every second of the fucking day. Grace’s father finding out where she’s been and forbidding her from seeing me. Or her getting accepted at some other Ivy League school that sends her out of Boston. Away from me. “It’s going, man,” I manage around the knot in my throat. “You got someone for me to fight?”
“You have no idea. I’m about to be your favorite person.”
“No thanks, I’ve already got one. Just tell me the news.”
Silvio laughs and I can hear him rubbing his hands together in the background. “How would you like to fight at TD Garden?”
Suddenly depleted of breath, I sit down on one of the benches in the quad area. “The Garden?” I’ve never even set foot into the arena where the Celtics play. “Are you serious? Who? When?”
“A week from today. Next Friday night. Arturo Colleti needs a new opponent to step in. The other guy broke his wrist. I spun it to the promoters in a way that was appealing. Amateur kid from Southie stepping in to fight the pro. Hometown hero. Yada yada. They ate it up.”