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)
One play later, Nate runs it in.
Yes!
We hold them back for thirty-five seconds as the clock runs out, then we walk off the field with a hard-won victory.
I am ecstatic and so damn relieved.
This is the best post-game shower ever.
The best suit I’ve put on after a game ever.
The best high-five with Nate ever.
Fine, fine. It’s only one game, but we needed it. I’m pumped full of adrenaline when I find Nolan waiting outside the locker room. “Lucky charm!” I call out.
He smiles, thrilled we won too. “Thanks for the ticket.”
I’ve only got a few minutes, but I want to say goodbye before heading to the team plane. “No, thank you for coming,” I say, still riding the post-game high.
Nolan waves a hand like it’s nothing, then gives me a serious look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I laugh in disbelief. “Did you watch the game? Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
He nods down the corridor, and we step away from the locker room. “I was just thinking about what you said yesterday when Jude showed us around,” he says quietly. “For you not to watch your favorite show because of a guy . . . that’s a big deal.”
My cheer drains away. I’ve stopped myself from talking about Beck and his situation enough already. I’m flying home in an hour, and I need to work through my situation.
I glance around the hall, checking for Rebels and Hawks, then duck to a quiet corner. My stomach’s in knots. I feel queasy even opening my mouth, but I’d feel worse saying nothing. “He’s another athlete,” I say softly, beginning a careful confession. “And I should not be so . . . out of sorts over a hookup. But the thing is—and this is vault—he plays football. And no, it’s not Nate.”
Nate’s separated from his husband, but he’s trying to work on the marriage, and I don’t want Nolan to think I’m interfering. I fully support my buddy and the effort he’s making with Oliver.
Nolan breathes a big sigh of relief. “Good. I mean, Nate’s a great guy, and I know he’s sort of available, but that’d be hard, being teammates.”
Try being rivals.
“Wait. Is it Luke?” Nolan asks, mentioning a friend of mine who’s a second-stringer for New York’s other football team—the Leopards.
Reasonable question since Luke’s out and proud. “No, not Luke Remington. But this guy—I think I might have been kind of a dick to him,” I admit.
That’s what’s weighing on me. I was so eager to do the right thing at the gym that I barely paid attention. I didn’t listen to what Beck needed to say—not like I listen to Whitney or Jonah or the kids at the center. “He seemed to want to explain why he didn’t show up for our second date, and I didn’t give him a chance,” I say, and I feel like shit about it no matter how cordial and happy-go-lucky I was the next day at the coffee shop.
Nolan smiles gently. “There’s a solution for that. Let him get a word in next time.”
Sounds easy, but I don’t know how to pry that conversation open at the gym. Or the coffee shop. Those places are public and not great for asking hey, about that queer thing . . .
But I’ll have to find a way because I’ll undoubtedly run into him again.
8
LOW KEY ICONS
Beck
Here’s another thing that’s different in San Francisco compared to Los Angeles.
The stadium is packed.
I don’t know if the Mercenaries ever sold out a single game. But as I stare down the tunnel before kickoff, ready to run onto the field in my first game as a Renegade, all I see are fans decked out in blue and gold.
Filling every seat.
The decibel level is insane, and somehow it cranks impossibly louder when the announcer warbles my name. “And now, your new starting quarterback, number nine . . . Beck Cafferty.”
My stomach jumps, a last warning shot of nausea. But the second I put one foot in front of the other, it vanishes.
There’s only football in front of me. I run out to the field and put all my nerves behind me.
Game on.
Three quarters later, we still have the lead, and I come out of the huddle ready to take the snap.
The crowd might be even louder now. I’m not sure anymore because I’m like Zach Galifianakis playing blackjack in The Hangover. Nothing else matters. I scan the field, assess the coverage, and make a decision. The play we planned won’t work.
But this one will.
I throw to Carter, he connects, and three plays later, we pad our lead with another touchdown.
Carter hoots and claps me on the back, but I keep my head down.
I can celebrate later. Football comes first.
At 7:43 that evening in the Renegades stadium, our defense fends off Miami one last time. I watch from the sidelines, my heart climbing into my throat as the clock winds down to zero.