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 place my hand on the small of Haven’s back as she shows the doorman our tickets.
She’s the one the media, fans, and football VIPs would like me to be with. They were never happy about my relationship with Ellis, but when you’re good, that’s all that matters, and I’ve always been good. But Haven is safer in the controlled bubble the league has tried to create. It makes it easier for them to forget I’m queer.
Not far into the gallery, we’re stopped by a man holding a tray with champagne glasses. “Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you,” I say, taking one for me and one for Haven, before we begin to shmooze.
She’s good at it. I am too, when I want to be. It’s something Coach Blake taught me—how to play the game, how to give people what they want, how to say all the right things. He tried so hard to mold me into a mini version of himself because he wanted me to succeed. Ellis was always there for me in that way too because their world was so far from my experience that I often struggled with it. But I don’t anymore. No one would know how much I hate being here, the way I feel like I’m suffocating, that it all feels so fucking fake and useless that it takes everything inside me not to scream for some kind of release.
I finish my champagne, then grab another. We walk around the gallery, looking at art, Haven speaking to everyone we run across.
They all know who I am too, that’s nothing new. I’m the bisexual running back who was drafted openly queer, spent the first few years breaking records, then lost my boyfriend, and shit’s gone downhill since.
“You going to take us all the way this season?” one of the women Haven is speaking with asks me, and I give her my famous smile.
“Oh, you can count on it.”
“That’s what we want to hear.” She reaches over and touches my arm.
We talk for a while before the women excuse themselves, leaving me alone with Haven.
“You should hook up with her. She wants to fuck you.”
I shrug because, honestly, that’s the last thing on my mind. I do hook up, but I don’t crave sex. It’s more like something else I’m supposed to do.
“Are you trying to pimp me out to your friends?”
“You would make me rich.”
I chuckle. I don’t know many people like Haven. I’m thankful for her, though I’m pretty sure I’ve never told her that.
A couple of hours pass. Haven and I break away from each other at some point, and I take that as a moment to pretend I’m into the art, that I understand what different brushstrokes or photographs mean or are trying to say. I hear people talk about art that way, that it’s saying something, but my brain works better in plays and football formations than it does with this type of creativity.
When I figure enough time has passed that I can leave without upsetting Haven, I pull my phone from my pocket and text her. She replies with an emoji sticking its tongue out, then tells me she’s proud of me for making it this long.
I slip my cell into my pocket and begin making my way through the gallery, managing to get all the way toward the back…when I see him. I freeze, my heart beating like crazy. Lucas Blake is standing about twenty feet away, a crowd surrounding him, but he’s not talking to any of them, the conversation going on without him as he just…stares at me.
I haven’t seen him since Ellis’s funeral. From everything Coach Blake says, he never comes home, so I’m fairly certain that’s also the last time he or Abbie have seen him.
He looks the same but older. He’s wearing a black suit like most of the men here. His white skin is pale, in stark contrast to his deep-brown eyes, and his blond hair is messy, like he hadn’t taken the time to comb it, which is how it always looks. He’s got high, sharp cheekbones, and hooded, closed-off eyes. Lucas has always looked like a model, but one who’s nonconforming, edgy…someone who doesn’t follow the rules, who’s toeing the wrong side of doing what’s right.
He’s got a chunky ring on, his nails are painted in a dark color, and his jaw is smooth, like it’s always been. He’s somehow looking both good and like he doesn’t give a fuck. And as far as I know, Lucas doesn’t give a fuck about many things besides art and photography. Certainly not his family.
I feel the intensity of his stare, not cold, just…curious. Then he tilts his head in this simple up-nod, as though I’m a random man he knows casually rather than someone who grew up with him, someone who was a part of his family, someone who loved his brother.