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 also can’t breathe a word of these forbidden fantasies to anyone. I didn’t tell her about my night with Jason last year. But I don’t like lying to Rachel, so I compromise. “There is this one guy, but I don’t think anything will come of it.”
“Why not?” She sounds devastated on my behalf.
“It’s distracting from football. We’ve won the first two games I played. I can’t deal with anything besides my job. This team is so good, it’s scary to lead it,” I say, and the weight of the responsibility presses down so hard on my shoulders I have to take a deep, calming breath.
“Are you doing okay with your anxiety?” she asks gently.
“Definitely. I do my meditation before every game. Before interviews too. I’m managing,” I say. It makes me feel good to give that truthful answer. Of all the things I’m proud of in my life, learning how to live with anxiety is one of them.
“Good, good,” she says, then I reach the Hot Pot Spot—talk about a rhyming name. “I should go. Bye, Rach.”
“Love you, Beck.”
“Ditto.”
Inside the restaurant, I find Carter, and we order. Quickly, the server sets up the broth on the burners on the table, and soon we cook vermicelli, potatoes, tofu, and fish.
After we power through the first course, Carter shows me his matches. “Swipe right or left?” He flashes me a pic of a brunette walking a chihuahua mix.
“That dog is cute. Swipe right, for sure,” I say, then take a bite of tofu.
Carter pulls a face.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t like my answer?”
“What I hear you saying is I didn’t look at her pic, I checked out the dog.”
I grin like an asshole. “Yup. Swipe right for the cute dog.”
He shakes his head in mock annoyance, then shows me the rest of his matches, but he’s half-hearted when he reaches the end. “I dunno. I might be old-fashioned, but I kind of want to have a date that’s just a date, not a hookup. And Tinder is such a hookup factory. Call me crazy, but I want more than sex.”
Mmm. I catapult back to this morning in the car.
Jason’s hand on mine felt like sex. His hand. Everything he does turns me on, and I don’t know what to do with this feeling that I’m vibrating every second of the day.
“But what about you, bro?” Carter asks. I return to the present as he fires more questions at me. “You want to get out there? I write awesome profiles if you decide to get on the apps. I can help you find Mister or Mrs. Right like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it for sure,” I say, but I won’t.
Dating is distracting. Friendship is not, though, so I focus on this moment, chatting about baseball for the rest of the meal.
Another hour logged. I’m almost done with this day.
When we leave Hot Pot Spot, Carter points his key fob at his Audi, parked outside the restaurant. “Need a ride home?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I like to walk.”
“Take a hat, then. In case someone spots you.”
“Really?” I haven’t been recognized yet. Except . . . by Portia. And by a Lyft driver the other day. Fine, he has a point. “Do you keep spare Renegades hats with you?”
“I’m not giving you a team cap. I have a stash of Seductive caps. My aftershave sponsor,” he says, then opens the trunk, grabs a purple ballcap, and wings it my way.
I catch it one-handed, then pop it on my head with a flip. Not to be shown up, Carter snags a hat, performs the same trick, then hops into his car and takes off.
I check the time. It’s nearly nine. I made it through a day when all I wanted was to confess my fantasies to Jason.
Maybe I need a trophy for resistance.
Except . . . I still want to tell him.
Is he out on a date? The idea horrifies me.
Is he home alone? The thought thrills me.
As I cover the first two blocks on Post Street, I fiddle with my phone, picturing Jason at his house. On his couch. Thinking about me too.
My chest absolutely aches.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I’m failing miserably at making it through the day.
I glance around at my surroundings, trying to get my bearings, to root myself in the present. I pass Hotel Kabuki. I reach Bush Street. I stop at the light. I hit the crosswalk sign.
But do I want to cross or turn around?
My heart beats faster. I can go home, shut the door, and lock myself in for the evening.
Instead, I walk on, click open my text messages, and write to Jason.
Beck: I didn’t get a car today.
It’s a conversation starter, that’s all, and the second I send it, I’m scared he won’t write back. But he responds in less than a minute.