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)
Fuck. That. All.
I lift the club, swing my hips, and hit the life out of that ball. “C’mon,” I mutter as it soars . . . right into the damn sand trap.
“Why, Satan? Why today?”
Nate and Luke laugh and wander ahead of us along the course, but Hazel hangs back. “You seem extra frustrated. And there’s usually one reason for that.”
I sigh.
She never misses my emotions, no matter how hard I try to hide them. “That obvious?”
She smiles sympathetically. “To me. Do you want to talk?”
I plunk the club onto the grass, resting my weight against the handle. “I don’t even know what there is to say about this guy. That’s the problem.”
“Is it someone you’re missing? Someone you want to see? Or is he someone who doesn’t want the same things you do?”
All her questions tug at my heart because the answers are too easy. “I miss him. I want to see him. And I’m pretty sure he wants the same things.”
“And what do you want?”
That’s easy too. “I want to see him. But it’s complicated.”
She smiles again. “It always is,” she says, too wise. “But if I can help, let me know.”
As we walk to the next hole, I weigh her last words. It’s not like me to turn down help when I need it, but do I need a sounding board to sort through the complicated sitch with Beck?
Or do I need less talk and more action?
The next night, I fill my home with food I ordered from a gourmet shop—seven-layer spider dip, pumpkin deviled eggs, veggie dog mummies, poisoned apples, bite-sized eyeballs made of marshmallows, and all the candy, gourmet chocolate, and Halloween cookies anyone could want.
Also, liquor.
Hazel, Luke, and Nate help me set up. By the time the party starts, pop music pipes through my sound system while black cat decorations and spiders line the walls. The mood is set, and the vibe is on.
Luke dons his referee costume, apropos for tending bar. Hazel pulls her red hair into a ponytail, pops on a white skirt the size of a postage stamp, and twirls the tennis racquet in her hand.
I head upstairs, lock the cat in my bedroom, and get into my costume. First, I dunk my head under the faucet, then slather gel in my hair so it’ll look wet all night. Next, I drape a pair of swim goggles around my neck, strip to nothing and pull on a swimsuit. I add shower shoes to complete the look, then head downstairs.
Luke’s setting out glasses on the counter, and he scoffs when he sees my get-up. “Why are you not in a Speedo?”
Nate smacks his shoulder. “What if there’s a hot guy here?”
Luke points at himself. “Dude, there is.”
I laugh, but they’re not why I picked board shorts over Speedos for my swimmer costume.
Nate walks closer to me and lowers his voice. “Oliver wants to talk,” he says, sketching air quotes and making a talk sound spookier than Halloween. “I’m going to head off.”
“Good luck, buddy,” I say and haul him in for a hug.
Soon, the first guests arrive. I open the door for everyone, greeting Orlando and Lucy, dressed as goalposts, saying hi to Devon decked out as a dodgeball star. Xavier shows up in a fighter pilot costume, insisting pilots are athletes. I don’t bother arguing. It’s a valid point, and besides, I’m not the costume police.
I’m just a guy hoping the guy I like enjoys my costume. I mean, the no-shirt look was strategic. I look good in just my abs.
But Beck hasn’t made it yet. Each time I open the door, I peer down the street, looking for him.
A couple of my friends on the Renegades arrive next. Hayden’s dressed as Ted Lasso, with Isaiah looking the part of his sidekick coach.
And still, there’s no Beck.
Beer in hand, I mingle but never take my eye off the door. Every time someone bounds up the front steps and rings the bell, my dumb heart jumps.
But it’s never Beck, and that sucks.
After an hour empty-handed, I’ve figured out the answer to Hazel’s golf question. I don’t need help from anyone. I do need to help myself.
The timeout is over. It’s time for action.
I steal away to the bathroom, shutting the door, then tap out a message on my phone.
Are you coming? I can’t stand not seeing you here. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. And I need to touch you.
27
NUDE SEWING
Beck
My costume rocks.
Jeans, a foam finger, and the number twelve painted on my bare chest for the twelfth man.
I am a certified fan, and I’m prepped to have a damn good time at Jason’s party. I’ll get to know new people. I’ll talk to teammates. I’ll have a blast.
Doesn’t matter if I speak to the host or not. Hell, who cares if I even see him? I’ve spent the last few days shutting down my emotions. That’s not cruel—it’s necessary to get through tonight as just one of the guests.