Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I snapped my focus back to Chuck and gave him the full intensity of my glare. “What the heck?”
He shrank an inch. “Is it a secret?”
“Yes.” Oh, God, that sounded awful. “No.” I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Since our night on the soccer field, Jay and I talked almost every day. It started simple. He texted me pictures of gross food, always commenting that it was a better option than tofurkey. I replied with sports fail memes. The last day of his training camp, he sent a GIF that said, “Everything hurts, and I want to die.”
Before I knew it, we were chatting about all sorts of things. Movies. Music. Even school, as long as it wasn’t about our football programs. I had a Pavlovian response to the chime of an incoming text message, unable to stop the stupid smile from spreading over my face. Chuck had listened to me snicker and snort for two weeks before finally confronting me about it.
I’d only been able to confess who I’d been texting with after I’d had two margaritas, and I didn’t give Chuck the full truth. I told him Jay and I were sort of friends.
Of course, I left out how we were the kind of friends who gave each other orgasms.
Chuck had laughed and acted like me getting friendly with a Michigan player wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t surprising. He’d never cared about the rivalry like my family did.
“Don’t you need to go line up?” I asked him, noticing how the marching band was drifting further away while he stood talking to me. He swiveled once again, pronounced by the large sousaphone wrapped around his body, and a sound of surprise squeezed out of him.
The instrument was heavy, but he moved like it was nothing, darting and weaving down the sideline toward his rank. I smiled.
That boy could move with a quickness. He’d do great dotting the ‘I.’
Dinner with the family at the Buckeye Bar after a game was tradition, win or lose. The place was packed. The Buckeye Bar was like Biff’s, only from a parallel dimension where everything was right and Ohio State themed. Sports memorabilia covered every inch of wall space and decorated the tables. There were even a few pictures of my dad in here.
I didn’t need a picture now. The man himself sat across from Cooper, and my dad leaned over the aisle as OSU’s defensive coordinator walked by. Most of the coaching staff came here postgame, which was how I’d been told our family tradition began.
“Defense looks strong again this year,” Dad said.
“Thanks, Bob.” The coordinator gave Dad an appreciative smile before continuing to join the rest of the coaches in the back.
“Cooper says you met a boy,” my mother said, and I heard the hopeful tone she was probably trying to hide.
I nodded, then dropped my gaze to my Kickin’ Buffalo Chicken wrap. We all ordered the same thing every time, and I’d been starving when we got here. Game days were long. Even after the game ended, we had a postgame show and parade through campus, so we didn’t get back to our equipment room until long after the stadium was empty. And we hardly ate during the day. Lunch was usually apples and protein bars scarfed down at halftime.
But now my appetite was waning. My mother was like me. Tenacious when she wanted something, and information about my new prospect was a top priority for her.
Thanks for that, Coop.
“Oh, yeah?” my dad said. “Let’s hear the guy’s stats.”
I had to give my parents something. “He’s . . . a computer science major, and a senior like me.” I glanced at my brother, who was playing on his phone and oblivious, so he was no help. I had to distract. “Hey, wasn’t that fumble recovery by Tariq Crawford awesome?”
My dad nodded enthusiastically, but my mother’s gaze narrowed with suspicion in the moment before it turned to my younger brother.
“You care to join us?” she asked.
Cooper seemed to sense her annoyed stare, but he didn’t look up from the screen of his phone. “What?”
“Cooper Gregory.”
The sharp “mom tone” did the trick and he looked up. “Sorry. I was just looking at ESPN’s top players for the NCAA.”
He set his phone face-up on the table between us, as if he wanted me to see the leaderboard. I inhaled so sharply, my bite of my wrap nearly went into my lungs.
The sixth spot down on the list was currently occupied by Jay.
As I choked, I held back the urge to look at Cooper. He couldn’t know, could he? He was eighteen. When I’d dropped Jay’s first name to him after the wedding, he’d barely paid attention. And if it wasn’t about sports, cars, or women, he usually had the memory of a goldfish.
“Dad,” my brother said, “you know that tight end, Jay Harris?”