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)
“I know you love work. But don’t you want to have fun? Maybe date again?” He’s had a few serious girlfriends over the years but never remarried.
He waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s hard out there. With the phone and the apps and the misery.”
I groan, dragging a hand along my chin, shaking my head in faux annoyance. “Dad, let me tell you something you are never allowed to complain about.”
His expression is dead curious. “What?”
I fix him with a tough stare. “Dating is never hard for a good-looking, well-off, straight man.”
“Fine, you have me there,” he concedes, drumming his fingers on the table. “Speaking of good-looking men, what about you? You haven’t introduced me to anyone since Wyatt.”
I growl. “He was the worst.”
“A man who gives you an ultimatum is pretty much the worst. So . . . anyone on the horizon?”
I picture Beck and our kiss this morning. I haven’t stopped replaying it. Guess I learned I was wrong about my attraction. It’s not a one-way street at all. But if I think about Beck too long right now, I’ll get aroused. I can’t even watch a sex scene with my dad on TV, so I’m not going to linger on how my rival felt pressed against me in the stairwell.
“Not really. There’s a guy . . . but nothing’s going to come of it,” I say, a little resigned.
“Why not?” Dad asks.
“A lot of reasons,” I answer. Beck is dangerous. Our situation is too risky. Teammates would be pissed, fans would cancel me, and Coach would ream me. Getting involved with Beck in any way would be a huge mistake. I sigh, then stand, and nod to the door. “But mostly, our jobs don’t align.”
“Sounds complicated,” he says.
That’s putting it mildly. “And after Wyatt, I sure would like something easy.”
“I hear you,” he says.
“I should go. Early practice tomorrow. Love you, Dad.”
He hugs me before I go, saying, “Love you, Jay. And maybe someday, it’ll be easier with your jobs.”
The only way that would happen is if we didn’t play pro football.
And I do love my job so damn much.
When I return home a little later, I turn out the lights for the evening and head upstairs. In my bedroom, I check my phone, some part of me foolishly hoping for a message from Beck.
Like, today was hot.
Want to do it again?
Can I come over?
But there won’t be a message. I blocked his number.
I flop onto my mattress, a silly awareness hitting me. I can unblock it too.
I scroll back to my texts from a year ago till I find it.
With one simple swipe, I unblock his number.
12
MISTER RIGHT
Jason
Beck’s not at the gym on Tuesday or at the coffee shop on Wednesday after my morning cardio.
That’s for the best. I have too much else going on. Namely, Coach’s game plan for this coming Sunday when we host the Denver Mustangs.
At the start of practice on Wednesday afternoon, he stalks the field, barking orders: “No distractions, men. Get your heads in the game this week because the Mustangs have a formidable defense.” He stops, gives me a searing look. “We need to keep their secondary on their toes. The game plan is to confuse the hell out of them about what plays we might be running. Got it, Fourteen?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. I’ve studied the playbook for this weekend upside down and inside out. Because of course I fucking have. That’s the job.
He continues down the line until he reaches the starters on defense, staring icily first at Elroy, then Johnson, then the others. “And I want you to breathe down their necks. Is that too much to ask this time?”
“No,” Elroy says.
“What was that?” Coach repeats, brow arching.
“No,” Elroy repeats, firmer now.
When we break into practice squads, I pat Elroy’s shoulder. “You got this, bud,” I say.
“Thanks,” he grumbles, and I hope he starts playing like he did a year ago—ferociously.
On Thursday morning, I swing by Nate’s home in the Marina to pick him up for practice. He’s upstairs on his balcony, shades on, savoring his morning view of the water. With a chin nod, he signals he’s on his way down. The man can fly—ten seconds later, he bounds out the front door and slides into the passenger seat, his game face on. “Jaybird, did you hear the news?”
My mind snaps to Beck and me. Did my rival and I get spotted in the stairwell? Or maybe there’s some news about Nate and his man situation? “No,” I say cautiously. “What news?”
“If we beat the ponies this weekend, we’ll have a winning record,” Nate declares as I pull away from the curb.
I laugh with relief. “Thanks for the update. I had no idea.”
“That’s what I’m here for. To catch your passes and do basic math.”
“Somebody has to,” I say as I drive past the bay, the rising sun glinting off the dark blue waters.