Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Maybe there’s something wrong with you, and you drive them that way.”
“Nah, it’s just because they know they’re never gonna get the D as good as they do from The Ramsinator.” I grabbed my dick for extra emphasis, making Houston burst out laughing.
“Never use that term in my presence again.”
It was what they’d called me in some online article talking about my game on and off the field. “If the shoe fits,” I joked. It was ridiculous as hell, and there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to be known as The Ramsinator, but it made for a good laugh.
“Shut the hell up,” he teased, then asked, “you been with a guy yet?”
Houston was the only person who knew I was bisexual. I mean, I assumed I was since I found men fucking hot. I hadn’t actually hooked up with a dude yet. I’d thought about it in college but chickened out. Now time kept going by, and I continued making excuses, but then I thought about all the hoopla that would go with it—the questions, the media, attention away from my game—and that was always when I shoved my desire even deeper into the closet. “Nope.”
“You’re missing out.” Houston waggled his brows at me. “I’d offer, but you’re like a brother to me, so that’s kinda gross.”
“You’re kinda gross,” I tossed back with the maturity of a twelve-year-old. Houston was my boy. I loved him like crazy, but I could never see him in a sexual way. I agreed with him. It would be like fucking around with my brother.
“Anyway, I’m out. I’ll see you tonight at my parents’ house at six.”
My gym was downstairs, in my finished basement. I walked up to the main level with Houston, where we bumped fists. “You know your way out. I need to go shower. I stink.”
“Not any worse than you always do,” he taunted as he headed through the living room toward the foyer.
This was the nicest place I’d ever lived in, though not completely my style—I didn’t really need four bedrooms, six bathrooms, and four thousand square feet of space. But I was good with my money, made responsible decisions and shit like that, so my house was one thing I’d splurged on. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing compared to some of the other guys’. I wasn’t flashy, but I wanted trails, lots of green space, and to be a little out of the city. Cedar Grove was the perfect neighborhood for that.
When I heard the door close, I jogged upstairs to my room. I turned on the dual showerheads, stripped, and got in. Jerking off was high on my to-do list, and the way I figured things, keeping it just me and my hand for a while would do me some good. The less drama the better.
After I blew my load on the black-and-gray granite wall, I cleaned up, washed my hair, and got out. I fucked around the house for a couple of hours before heading out to my SUV to make the drive to the McRaes’.
One of my favorite things about them was how down-to-earth they were. Houston’s parents had let him buy them a vehicle when he was signed to the Rush, but that was about it. They still lived in Denver, in the same house where he and Garrett had been raised—a two-story in an older neighborhood filled with middle-class families and manicured lawns. They fit there, and I liked that they did.
My father had blown his NFL career in just a few years—not from an injury he couldn’t prevent, like Houston, but with bad decisions, a bad attitude, and a coke habit. He still tried to live a life he couldn’t afford. I tried to minimize my contact with him. I was just starting to get to the point where people didn’t mention my father in interviews, but he never stayed away for long. He didn’t understand boundaries. It was all about what he wanted and when he wanted it, and when it came to me, what he normally wanted was cash. He’d show up whenever he got a hair up his ass to try and get it too.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, my muscles tense, the way they always got when I thought about him. He was the last person I wanted on my mind, so instead, I daydreamed about Ms. McRae’s meatloaf, which was to fucking die for, and the look on Garrett’s face if I alternated between calling him Little Man and Baby G. He was gonna be pissed, and I’d love the shit out of it.
I pulled into their driveway to see Houston’s car was already there. I parked and headed for the porch, and just as I hit the top step, the door opened. I grinned when I saw Garrett standing there. “What’s up, Little Man?”