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)
“That’s how you are with everyone,” he says, no judgement, just truth. Then he glances at the time on his phone on the table. “We’ll come up with something for Dad, but for now let’s head to the studio.”
Thirty minutes later, our friend TJ and his actor boyfriend, Jude, are taking us on a tour of Unfinished Business, Jude’s TV show that films inside a block-long concrete slab of a building on Tenth Avenue.
Once we’re past security, and inside the show’s studio, I gawk. Slack-jawed, I point excitedly to the brick exterior wall of Jude’s character’s building. “Dude, that’s where Jamie lives!”
With a delighted smile, Jude gestures to another area of the set. “If you like that, let me show you the infamous stairwell.”
Jude ushers us past a café set to the plain, white walls and concrete steps. “That’s where you and Zoe had your first kiss,” I say, sounding like a certified fanboy, and I don’t care.
“Good memory,” TJ puts in.
Then, Jude’s expression turns a little more serious. “But I hope what happened there this season didn’t taint your memory?”
Embarrassment crawls through me. “I haven’t seen the new season,” I confess. “When did it premiere?”
Nolan squeezes my shoulder, shaking his head like he can’t believe I missed it. “A month ago, Jaybird. Your favorite show premiered a month ago.”
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter.
TJ points to the door in a huff. “Leave. Now.”
I laugh to cover up how much I feel like an ass for missing my friend’s show.
The new episodes must be in my queue, but something keeps me from clicking.
Oh, shit.
The show reminds me of Beck. Did I really like the guy so much after one stinking date that I’ve been avoiding my favorite show because it makes me think of him?
The evidence adds up.
But I don’t want my friends to think I’m some jackass who ignores their work. “I’ll catch up on it, I promise. It’s not the show, Jude. I watched it a year ago with this guy, and then he never showed for our next date, and that kind of sucked,” I admit, feeling a little lighter as I get closer to the things I want to, but can’t, discuss.
Jude smiles sympathetically. “That twat didn’t deserve you.”
I appreciate the support, though that’s not the issue with Beck. He’s not undeserving. But I might have jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m the twat.
I’m dying to unpack the Beck run-ins with Nolan or TJ and Jude. But there’s no way I can talk about what happened without saying why it was so messed up—because Beck and I play the same sport.
“Show me the rest of the set and I promise to catch up soon on the season,” I say to Jude with the same excitement I used with Nate when I ordered the mango smoothies.
I shove Beck out of my mind one more time.
The New York Rebels’ defense is predatory. I swear their linebackers have fangs.
But we’re only down by seven with two minutes left in the half. As the crowd stomps their feet and demands my head on a platter, I get in the pocket, take the snap, and scan for the tight end. But Orlando is swarmed, and so is Nate. As I hunt for a free man, I scramble away from a bloodthirsty Rebel hellbent on sacking me, and then the heavens part.
Nate escapes a cornerback trying to reroute him, and I have enough time and protection to fire the ball his way. The fast motherfucker catches it with outstretched arms, then spins away and takes off.
All the way down the field.
And into the end zone.
Yes!
We switch out, and I meet Nate at the sidelines to high-five him before he rips off his helmet. Our kicker evens up the score, and when our defense staves off the Rebels until the clock runs out, we head into the locker room at halftime, feeling like maybe things can go our way.
C’mon, c’mon.
I pace the sidelines. Jaw clenched, hope strung tight. All we need to do is hold the Rebels to a field goal, and then I can return to the field. Five minutes remain on the game clock, and the score is tied again, seventeen to seventeen.
When our so-called turtles show their mettle and stop the drive, I pump my fist. The Rebels kicker nails the field goal, and then it’s our chance to salvage this game on offense.
I’m not going to let my team start the season down two.
We take possession. With determination and a relentless focus on quick, short passes, we encroach into Rebels’ territory.
The crowd noise is deafening. But I’ve spent my whole life drowning out the sound and the fury from the stands.
When the center snaps the ball, I scan downfield. As Orlando dodges the coverage, I gun the football his way . . . and boom. He makes a beautiful catch five yards from the end zone, then scrambles out of bounds.