Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I meant it when I made my eternal vow of silence. Luca needs to learn a lesson about how to treat me. My father always says, “If you don’t have your integrity, then you’ve got nothing.” And so, come hell or high water, I’m determined to prove him right. But as I’ve been finding out, being determined and brokenhearted aren’t mutually exclusive things.
Frankly, I’m furious with myself for continuing to mourn the loss of what I thought I had with Luca, but I can’t help myself. I’ve been a husk since he broke up with me. A shell. A zombie. I can’t eat, sleep, or fully concentrate. Truly, it feels like there’s been a death in my immediate family—that’s how much this is affecting me. And even though I don’t want to feel this way, even though my brain keeps screaming at me to snap out of it and move on, my heart won’t bounce back.
On the field, Moriarty almost sacks Miami’s quarterback—their QB throws the ball away to save himself, just in time—and the action on the field shifts my focus to Morarity’s swaggering frame for a long moment.
Thank God I’m no longer assigned to that man. He’s been working with Raul this past week, while I’ve been relegated to helping out whichever coach or coordinator asks something of me. The good news is that’s meant nobody has cared or noticed all that much what I do and how distracted and pitiful I’ve been lately. The bad news is that my newfound nebulous role makes it abundantly clear my time with the Mastodons probably isn’t going to lead anywhere good.
A time-out is called by Miami, a commercial break ensues, and the defensive coordinator asks me for some data, mercifully saving me from my wandering thoughts, if only briefly. I quickly find the information for him, which he conveys to Moriarity. And when the game resumes, right off the bat, Moriarty uses the intel to break free of Miami’s tight end, find daylight, and take down the bad guys’ quarterback with a sickening and delightful thud.
It’s a massive defensive play—one that stops Miami’s drive and prevents them from adding even more points to the scoreboard—so Moriarty understandably celebrates enthusiastically with his teammates before jogging off the field.
As Moriarty makes his way toward the sideline, he beats his chest pad and bellows, “They say if you love someone, you should set ’em free, so I caged that fucker up and took him down, baby!”
The comment gets a big whoop and fist pump from every teammate and coach within earshot, but I’m suddenly too dumbstruck with an epiphany to move or make a sound.
Oh my God. If you love someone, set them free. Like a thunderbolt, it hits me with full force: That’s what Luca must have been trying to do a week ago! Set me free.
Because he loves me.
Luca loves me.
Luca, Luca, Luca. He’s such a fool! A dumbass fucking fool!
Just this fast, I’m positive he thought he was doing something good a week ago. Something selfless and gallant. When in reality, he threw a Molotov cocktail into everything I thought I knew about the man.
In a flash, I see our entire conversation in that hallway through an entirely different lens. Luca felt wounded and unworthy in that moment. So much so, he decided to set me free through any means necessary, even if it meant forcefully and cruelly pushing the little birdie out of her happy home. He thought he was pushing me out of a cage and forcing me to fly toward my own dreams, didn’t he? When all he was doing, in reality, was lighting my feathers on fire!
“Did you like that sack, Parkette?” Moriarty calls out as he strides toward me with a beaming smile on his sweaty face. “Consider it my gift to you.” With a laugh, he reaches out his massive arms to telegraph his plan to swing me around like he’s done in before, but I jump back and hold up my palms to fend him off.
“No,” I bark. “Don’t touch me.” As his face falls, I add, “And don’t call me Parkette anymore, either. I hate it.” My breathing quickens. “Actually, don’t speak to me again, unless you’re responding to something I’ve said directly to you. Can you do that for me? And even then, you’ll need to keep it professional and respectful from now on, or I’ll go to my father and tell him you’re not respecting my boundaries and making me feel uncomfortable.”
Moriarty’s smile is long gone now. Indeed, his rugged face has drained of color. Good. He’s been acting like I’m his own personal plaything for weeks now, and I’m sick of it. Frankly, my only regret is that I should have said this stuff to him much earlier, like during our first one-on-one session, which is when he first started calling me pet names and acting like I’d been assigned to him as part of a harem rather than as a professional coach.