Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
And sorting out the practical details of my new life here makes the trade feel less . . . overwhelming.
We reach an arched doorway, and I stop short as I drink in the kitchen. It’s a total hog of a room that gobbles up most of the space in the apartment, like a giant advertisement for size matters. I head in and walk around, running my hand along the counter. The fridge isn’t quite appliance porn, and the stove won’t make a chef moan, but it’ll suit me just fine.
“It’s a good kitchen, isn’t it? You can throw dinner parties here if you want,” Portia says.
Huh. I suppose that’s a thing people do. I’m more of a solo chef.
“I doubt I’ll do that,” I say. I have maybe one person in town to invite: Carter, an outgoing receiver on my new team. I don’t think the rest of the guys on the Renegades are jonesing to come to my dinner party. They want what everyone in this town wants from me—a repeat of last season.
Another shiny, fat ring.
Portia shrugs knowingly. “You might,” she says, hinting like she’s already asked the cards.
But if she had, the cards would be wrong.
“Take your time, Beck,” she adds. “Look around. And if you decide to sign the lease, I’ll give you a discount for every game won.”
Is she serious? But the please say yes look tells me she’s not joking. “Take your time. Think about it. I’ll look out for you,” she says in a kind tone that surprises the hell out of me.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
Maybe this is my new normal, this level of fandom.
But it’s not just that. There’s something about Portia that’s reassuring. She seems to want me to rent so she can protect the new guy in town.
“Thanks, Portia,” I call out. I haven’t had much support in my life lately. Everyone’s far away or gone.
As I putter around the kitchen, opening the fridge, testing the appliances, I’m no longer in a daze. I’m not numb. I’m this shy of . . . excited for real.
This is happening.
I’m in the limelight.
Fans will cheer, haters will jeer, and I won’t go unnoticed like I often did in Los Angeles, with its laid-back football vibes. Los Angeles has so many sports teams that no one ever got too excited about the Mercenaries. There’s baseball and basketball, plus the beach and the movie stars. They were all more interesting than a sometimes-decent-but-sometimes-not football team that has never won a championship.
Now, I’m the epicenter of a football-obsessed city. I can hear the stomping of feet, the rally cries. I can feel the intense weight of the wild, wonderful, terrifying responsibility of leading this team.
The Renegades are a dynasty, having won four of the last twelve Super Bowls, and they’d already anointed Cooper’s heir when he retired last season. His backup, Trevor Washington, was all set to take the throne. But Trevor tore his shoulder in practice the day before the first game.
Less than twenty-four hours later, they’d traded for me.
It’s humbling and awesome all at once.
I’ve been trying to keep all these feelings in check, but now they’re clawing their way out of me, and I want to tell someone—to say holy shit, this is my life!
My parents are nearly impossible to reach since they relocated to Australia when I was in high school, leaving my brother to finish raising me. My friends in Los Angeles are at work. But Portia’s down the hall.
I march out of the kitchen and find her by the door, fiddling with her phone. She looks up, her hazel eyes expectant.
But I bet she isn’t expecting me to blurt out: “It’s daunting to replace the city’s favorite son.”
She pats my arm warmly. “Aww, honey. You’re going to do great.”
“As long as I win,” I say.
She brings her hand to her chest, alarmed. “Did I make you feel bad? I don’t want to pressure you.”
I shake my head. “The job comes with pressure. It’s literally part of the role. And you didn’t make me feel bad. You’re making me feel welcome. I appreciate that. A lot,” I say.
I think I need to feel welcome too.
I also need this apartment. I’m still earning the salary of a second-year player who went in the sixth round of the NFL draft.
“I’d like to sign the lease,” I say.
She gasps. “I’m waiving the security deposit right now.”
Well, then. That is an auspicious start.
And finally, I feel a little more like myself again. Like maybe my humor is coming back. Some of my native sarcasm. “By the way, when I said I liked birds, I meant all birds, except Hawks.”
Her eyes gleam. “We’ll get along just fine.”
I move in the same day. It takes all of an hour since I have no furniture, only suitcases.
So, there’s something checked off my list: unpack.