Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Now I dread it. My mother always means well with her meddling ways, but she has all the subtlety of a bulldozer. “She married Glenn off, so now I’m her pet project. I do not have the energy to deal with it.”
“You want me to come with you?” Jake offers. “I’m an excellent distraction. I can moan about not getting enough to eat and how I’m wasting away.” He runs a hand over his chest where he’s put on about ten pounds of lean muscle during the off-season. Not that my mother will care; she’ll feed him regardless.
“Thanks,” I say, toeing off my shoes. “But that will only give her two of us to fixate on.”
Jake stows his gear in a cubby and stretches his arms overhead as three women walk in. Barely dressed, their bodies lithe and graceful, they eye us with familiar, playful interest. Jake tracks their movement through the room. “Best fucking day of the week,” he says with a feral grin.
“I enjoy coming here, Ryder. So don’t fuck it up by dipping your wick in this particular wax.”
Jake snorts. “Too late.”
“Jesus. Who?”
“Rachel.”
Which would explain why the little blonde keeps sending covert glances our way. “And Sheila,” he adds, as Sheila of the bouncy curls and death glare stomps by.
Thankfully, a guy can’t actually lose his balls with one look, or we’d both be hurting right about now.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re a fucking menace.”
He laughs, totally unrepentant. I wonder if this is how I come off to Chess. It isn’t exactly flattering. If that’s the case, I can’t blame her for wanting to stay away.
Shaking my head at Jake, I pull out my phone. Thoughts of Chess make me want to talk to her. We’d agreed to be friends, exchanged numbers, and then I’d left her to her night. Not an easy task, considering she’d said she was going home to soak in a tub.
Would it be within the bounds of friendship to ask how that bath of hers went?
“Who are you texting?” Jake tries to peer over my arm.
I elbow him away. “Isn’t there another female you could be posturing for?”
Jake squints as if contemplating. “Probably not a good idea. I think I’m pushing it as it is.”
“Oh, now you come to that realization?” Snorting, I tap out a message to Chess.
She answers immediately. We fire a few texts back and forth. No matter what I throw her way, she volleys right back with sass.
“You should see your face right now, Manny,” Jake says. “You are in total smit.”
“Smit?”
“Yeah, smitten. Totally fucking smitten.” He looks almost sorry for me. Chess pings me back, and I grin and answer, only half-aware of Jake.
“This does not bode well for you, my friend,” he says. “Clueless shits like us should stick to hookups.”
“Not everything is about sex,” I tell him, only half believing it. I type another message to Chess, as Eleanor spots us and heads our way with a look in her eye that promises she’ll be making us sweat and burn.
“You’re right,” he says with a grin. “There’s football. Sex and football. What more could a guy want?”
Six months ago, I’d tell him nothing and give him a high five. Now? I don’t know the answer.
Chess
I’m putting on my makeup when Finn texts me.
GQ: Hey. Who are you shooting today?
I can’t decide if it’s the fact that he texted me or that I’d named him GQ in my contacts that makes my day suddenly a little sunnier. But there’s a smile tickling my lips as I pick up my phone and respond.
CC: Porter. Worchowsky. Redmond. Phillips, Mr. Nosy.
We’re doing two calendars. One featuring the offensive team and the other with the defensive team. Today, I’m working with guys on the defense.
GQ: I don’t know this Nosy. Careful. He might be a spy.
CC: Very cute.
GQ: I try. 😉
CC: Aw, and you do emojis too. Such a cute QB.
GQ: Am tempted to send the finger emoji . . .
My laughter rings out in the relative silence of my loft. I find myself unable to sit still anymore and head for my balcony.
CC: 😘Where are you?
GQ: On my way to ballet class.
Okay, what? Not what I was expecting.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Yes. Ballet.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Are we talking in circles here?
Biting my lip against a grin, I rest my forearms on my balcony rail and answer.
CC: No. I’m trying to convey my skepticism.
GQ: You know, for an independent career woman, you’re awfully old fashioned in your outlook, Ms. Copper.
CC: Fine, I’m exposing my double standards. Send a picture as proof.
GQ: So untrusting. Here’s your proof, Mrs. Doubtfire.
He sends me a selfie. Wearing a tank top and baggy gym shorts over tight compression shorts, he’s in front of a mirror wall with a barre bar attached to it. Jake is with him, and they’re both making goofy faces, their tongues sticking out like Gene Simmons from KISS. Between them stands a thin and elegant older woman in a leotard. She grins with pride, her arms around the two men as if they’re her boys.