Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Tingles race up my spine, and my orgasm hits me like a bolt of lightning on a clear summer night, hard, fast, and unexpected. I cry out his name at the same time he calls out mine, and we tumble over the edge together.
Foster rests his forehead against my back. I feel his lips press to my spine before he finally pulls away. “Shower,” he mumbles, before lifting me into his arms and carrying me to the bathroom.
Once the water is to his liking, he leads me into the shower. We don’t rush. Instead, we allow our hands to wander, to explore each other’s bodies, even though we could draw a map with our eyes closed.
By the time we make it back to bed, we’re both exhausted. I snuggle into his chest, he wraps his strong arms around me, and we drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Foster
* * *
I’m nervous. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t seem to control it. The feeling sits heavily in my gut, like a weight I can’t shake loose, no matter how many times I pace the length of the living room. Back and forth. Couch to window. Window to door. The feeling never fades.
It’s just a phone call. That’s what I keep telling myself. A few words, a few minutes, and then it’s done. But the truth is, it’s not just a call. It’s an admission. A reckoning. It’s me finally saying out loud what I’ve been avoiding for far too long, and once I do, there’s no pretending anymore. Not that I want to continue to pretend, but I’m putting myself out there.
Again.
Eden has turned my world upside down, and I love her for it, but old insecurities die hard, hence the pacing. This call is long overdue. Lifting my phone, I stare at the screen, but I chicken out and start pacing once again.
Eden left a little while ago to visit Carrie. She hovered in the doorway before she went, keys in hand, eyes searching my face like she already knew I was coming apart at the seams. She offered to stay, to reschedule, to sit beside me while I made the call, to be here for moral support. She offered like it was nothing. Like I wouldn’t be leaning on her just to get through it.
I told her to go.
Not because I didn’t want her here. I always want her right next to me, but because this is something I have to do on my own. Me. No buffers. No shields. No one else to carry the weight of it with me. I watched her walk out, listened to the door click shut behind her, and felt the silence immediately.
That silence is louder than I expected.
I stop pacing once again and stand in the middle of the room, phone clenched in my hand, knuckles tight, blood hammering in my veins. I can feel my heart beating in my ears, can feel an old instinct rising, the one that tells me to put it off just a little longer, to find a reason, any reason, not to dial the number. Anything to ward off the fear of rejection.
I know they won’t reject me. Over the years, they’ve been there for me, but I’ve been too blinded by my past to accept them for the roles they play in my life.
They’re my parents.
Coach Pruitt and Hope are the closest I’ve ever come, and still to this day, they support me. They call to check on me, come to see me play, and my dumb ass has taken that for granted. Guilt washes over me.
Not anymore. Not after today. Not after I make this phone call.
I know deep down that they’re going to be thrilled to hear from me, but there is a little boy deep inside me who still fears rejection.
I have to silence that little boy and be the man that I am. The man they helped me become.
Eden is the reason I’m here. She’s the reason I’ve come to realize my mistakes with the Pruitts, but it’s me. I’m the one who decided it was time to fix that mistake. Now, if only I could make the call.
Eden never pushed. She didn’t demand. She just saw me. Really saw me, and somehow made me see myself, too. All the things I’ve buried. All the messy parts of life I’ve pretended would tie themselves up if I ignored them long enough.
They won’t.
That’s my job.
I draw in a slow breath, then another, trying to steady my hands. This is what manning up looks like, I guess. Not being fearless, but feeling every ounce of fear and potential rejection, but doing the thing anyway. Facing the discomfort. Owning the mess.
My thumb hovers over the Call button.
Fifteen minutes of pacing. Years of avoidance.
I close my eyes.