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)
Thank you, James, for your constant football prattle.
“Love it,” Meghan says. “But back to Manny’s shot. Maybe we should lead with that one.”
I’m not bringing it back on-screen. No one else is seeing the unedited version again.
I shake off the possessive feeling that’s clinging to my neck.
“It’s up to you, obviously, but I think it’d work much better as a surprise. Everyone is going to want to see Mannus. He’s your star quarterback and team leader. Keep him under wraps, and you feed the need.”
Part of me is internally laughing at all the bullshit I’m spewing, and wonders if they’ll see right through me. The other part hates that I’m even in a conversation that revolves around how to best use Finn’s fame.
But Megan makes an agreeable noise over the phone. “I like it. Let’s go with Dex and Rolondo for now.”
“I can send them over in about an hour,” I promise. “I’m just going to touch up a few shadows.” Shadows being a set of balls, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
“Great. I’ll plan to get them out with a press release today.”
Thankfully, the call finishes quickly. As soon as I hang up, I let out a breath and hold my head in my hands. What the fuck is wrong with me? I just hissed and swiped over Finn like some territorial she-beast. I have the horrible suspicion that, if I had been in the room with Dani and Meghan at the time, I’d have bared my teeth at them.
Total she-beast.
Finn isn’t mine, and he can take care of himself. Then again, he didn’t want to be seen as some piece of man-meat. You were right to protect him.
Running my fingers through my hair, I flip the heavy mass back over my shoulder and take a long, cleansing breath. I have work to do. Thinking about Finn Mannus isn’t part of that job. The sooner I remember that, the better off I’ll be.
The thought barely settles when my phone dings, and my stupid heart gives a happy leap. It’s embarrassing how fast I grab for the phone. Maybe even more so when my grin wavers, as I see that it isn’t Finn but James.
JamesTTwerk: You almost done for the day?
CC: Just finishing up
JamesTTwerk: Cool. You want me to pick you up on Friday?
It takes me a second to remember what the hell he’s talking about. When I do, I sigh. James is back from New York, and we’re supposed to go to our friend Malcolm’s annual “Cocks and Cocktails” party. I slump against my chair. Same people, same conversations. Why that has suddenly lost its appeal, I can’t say, but just the thought of going exhausts me.
I’m tempted to tell James I don’t want to go, but I know he’ll just nag and cajole me to go anyway. Besides, I clearly need to get out of this loft and out of my own head for a while.
Six
Finn
Things some people might not know about my job—I am a chess player. You might think I’m just standing there in the huddle or on the line of scrimmage, shouting out instructions passed down to me by the coach. In reality, it’s more than that. I’m reading the defense, arranging my guys like pieces on a board, reacting and plotting. And I’m given about five seconds to do it.
I am a cheerleader. I don’t have pom-poms, and while my ass is admittedly cute, I don’t shake it—much. But I am absolutely cheering my guys on. Pride is a powerful motivator. So is loyalty. I create both when I tell them how fucking brilliant they are on good plays, for them to keep pushing, never let up.
I am a leader. They look to me to set the tone, to take the game in hand, even if some of them will never admit it.
And I am an actor. If I fold, if I show fear, it’s game over for my men. There isn’t a play in which I’m not faking the defense out, putting up a good front, and playing mind games.
On the field, it’s mind, body, and sprit working in perfect harmony. As I said, best job in the world.
Then . . . we have the other days of the week.
I suppress a sigh and flip through the massive binder on my lap. In the armchair next to me is my backup QB, Dillon. Wooster, the third-string quarterback, sprawls on the couch. Not sure why that fucker gets to lie down. But house rule regarding seating has always been first come first serve. Somehow Wooster always gets the couch.
Altman, our offensive coordinator, is droning on, explaining the new play calls that I could read for myself if he’d end this meeting and let me. One hundred and thirty new play calls, to be exact.