Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I’d seen that over the years. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Coach Blake if he’s in the room. He commands attention, and everyone wants to make him happy…everyone except maybe Lucas.
“What did you take a photo of?”
“Of Mom and Ellis. He was picking a piece of grass out of her hair, and she was smiling. I don’t know what made it so special. I think I just caught the right angle, the right light. It felt like a masterpiece to me. I was so proud of it.”
“That’s the photo in the hallway.” It had been there since the first time I went to the Blakes’ house and was still hanging there the last time I’d gone.
“Yeah. She loves it.” There’s a softness to Lucas’s voice that he doesn’t often have when talking about other people, but it’s often there when he mentions Abbie. “I think that’s when she realized I have talent. She used to try and get Dad involved in my photography. He never had any time for it. He was still pushing football on me, and though I still played, I complained about it and never practiced. We always fought about it.”
The pain of what he’s saying hits the bull’s-eye in the center of my cracked heart. The way Coach Blake treated Lucas… “I’m sorry I never said anything.”
There’s a short pause before he says, “It wouldn’t have changed anything. Mom tried. Hell, I think at some point even Ellis tried. I betrayed Dad when I didn’t love football, and once you betray Ellis Blake Sr., there’s no going back.”
Fear slithers through my veins, making my whole body feel sluggish. He’s right. Of course he is, and this conversation right now feels like a betrayal of Coach Blake, just like it is a betrayal of Ellis. Their father will never understand me talking with Lucas like this, not after who I was to Ellis and what I owe him.
“What are we doing, Lucas?” I ask, wondering if this feels both heavy and light to him as well. Like it’s too much, too wrong, a weight to bear, while also easing some of the tension I always carry in my shoulders.
“Talking.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” Unless, to him, this is something different than it is to me. Maybe he’s just passing the time with these conversations.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks, the question hanging in the air between us.
I hear him breathing, wonder if he hears me doing the same. Say yes. It should be so simple to say yes, but the thought leaves my skin chilled. “No,” I let the truth free. It’s a strange feeling, like lately I’ve kept so much of myself trapped inside, but that one word escapes, taking some of the pressure inside me with it. “Do you?”
“No,” Lucas answers. “You should know I’m a selfish person, though. I take what I want, regardless of the circumstances.”
“That’s not true.”
“Come over tomorrow.”
“I have practice.”
“It’s Tuesday. You forget I know how this works.”
Tuesdays are typically our day off so we can rest, recoup, and have personal time.
“Okay. Text me your address.”
When he says, “Sweet dreams, Hunter,” it sounds like he’s smiling.
“Sweet dreams, Lucas.”
Surprisingly, when we get off the phone, I fall asleep.
*
When Lucas messaged me his address, he also said to come over at nine for breakfast.
He lives in a condo building in West Hollywood. While most of the time it’s easy to blend in in LA, I don’t want to risk being seen going into Lucas’s building, so I wear a baseball cap, low above my eyes, and a simple pair of black track pants and an athletic shirt.
I use the intercom to call up, and Lucas lets me inside. My heart raps against my chest the whole time, as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t. Really, can’t Lucas and I be friends? We’ve been practically family for most of our lives, so why would it matter if I go see him? But something about this feels illicit, like I’m breaking rules or doing something taboo, even though it’s just having someone to talk to.
That’s all this is. Someone to talk to, someone who gets it, gets me.
I take the elevator to his penthouse apartment. My chest is still tight when I step into the hallway, but some of the pressure I’ve carried all morning is starting to dissipate. I knock on the door, and seconds later it opens, Lucas standing there in a black tank top and gray sweats, his feet bare. He’s wearing a chain necklace and rings, and one arm has a sleeve of tattoos. He had a few when Ellis was still alive, but not this many. Even back then, his parents had complained about them. I’ve never thought much about tattoos—they aren’t really my thing—but they fit Lucas.