Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
A call is in order.
March answers quickly. “Bro. Nice game. The way you lock-armed that tackle?” He starts laughing. “Fucking classic. I’ll never admit it at family dinner, but that shit was badass.”
From my end of things, all I’d seen was a brick-house defensive tackle charging my way, his helmet an enormous red ball. I could have run around in the pocket and hoped he didn’t flatten me before I’d thrown. But he’d been too close. So I simply put my hand on his helmet, locked my arm, and danced back, while I took the opportunity to throw.
Watching it on our playback assessment, it had looked like I’d been Super Quarterback, able to hold tackles at bay with ease. In truth, my ability to ward off a three-hundred-pound lineman with one arm, while appearing badass, was more about physics than anything else. But I appreciate the sentiment.
Huffing out a laugh, I turn on my truck and start the air. “What choice did I have? Not trying to get my bell rung.”
“The guys were impressed.”
March often watches my games with his teammates. When I was in college, I did the same for him and Jan as well. I still watch March play, though it’s often recorded these days.
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
“Oh, hell. I know that tone. It says, I’m guilty as all fuck and please won’t you help me out of it, oh awesome March?”
“Never have I ever said that.” I might have said something similar, but I’m not copping to the “awesome March” bit.
“Spit it out because we both know the truth.”
Sighing, I confess. “I asked Penelope to be my fake fiancée to improve my image for the team.”
Silence follows. Thick and judgy.
“Come again?”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
“Yeah . . . What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“That she’d make a great fiancée.”
“She would. She’s very loyal and can keep a secret.”
“Exactly.” I knew he’d get it.
Another sigh comes through the line, this one irritated.
“Broseph, who the fuck are you trying to fool? More importantly, how are you going to keep your hands off her? Or is this a fake relationship with benefits, because somehow, I can’t see Pen going for that.”
“Now you’re just being insulting.”
“I’m speaking the truth. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
Scowling, I turn the air on high and glare out the windshield. “We’re getting along. This will work.”
“You’re going to get hurt.”
“Me?” An itch starts on my spine and crawls up my back. Of all my family, no one knows better than March how much I can get hurt. I’m fucking excellent at hiding pain.
“Yeah. Because you like her too much to fake this.”
There’s a downside to someone knowing you almost as much as you know yourself. I can lie to myself, but it’s a lot harder to lie to him.
I put the truck in Drive and head out. I hate when the little shit is right. Especially when he digs into my misery. His drawl turns downright lazy, which means he’s enjoying the hell out of himself.
“I mean, from the moment we hit puberty, anytime Pen came near you’d clam up tighter than a defensive line on fourth and goal.” He snickers. “Or flee the room like you had the rips.”
“Funny.” And sadly, true. Damn it. I couldn’t help myself; Pen would get that flat “oh it’s him” stare, and it was such a kick to the gut that I’d . . . shut down. Pride: You can try to reason with it, but it doesn’t always listen. “I was . . . working through some things.”
“Took your time about it, bro. Frankly, I’m amazed as fuck you’re even talking to her now.”
“Well, obviously I am—”
“Yeah. Jumped right on into the deep end, didn’t you?”
“Are you through?”
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?”
“No.”
“Then why the fuck are you calling?” he asks.
“I have no fucking idea.” Maybe part of me wanted him to talk me out of this. But it was never really in the cards; the idea of walking away from Pen now has my back up. I’d rather get the shit knocked out of me by a defensive tackle.
Since the draft, I’ve been in a panic, messing up and acting out. When I’m with Pen, all the expectation and pressure just fade, and I feel like me again. Happy. Excited about life.
“I’m supposed to announce the engagement during my presser,” I say. “Pictures of Pen and me are out, and the question will be asked.”
Fed to the press by PR more like it. They have a way of controlling those things. Like sneaky information elves.
“You giving me a heads-up, is that it?”
“Yeah.”
I can almost see March meditatively nodding.
“What are you going to say to the family?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got time. None of them watch the pressers. Mom and Dad are on that trip to Mexico.” My parents are enjoying their early retirement by traveling everywhere. I want to do the same one day. Right now, I’m glad they’re away. I know I have to tell them, but I’m choosing avoidance at the moment. “It’ll be fine.”