Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I fist his shirt and tug him closer. “Depending on what you put up on offer, you might not even need a study nook.” His cock throbs against me when I murmur, “You might only need a sock.”
Epilogue
McKayla
Two and a half years later…
“Ma, have you seen my shoes?” I reek of cow dung, my hair is a mess since I haven’t had time to wash it, and my jeans are fitting a little too snugly for my liking.
My mother’s cooking is to die for—literally.
Heart Attack City here I come.
“Ma!” I shout again. “I can’t be late.”
When I gallop down the stairs of my childhood home, I veer for the kitchen, aware it is the hub of the home. It is where we congregate for every major event.
Except today.
“Where is everyone?”
When my race through the expansive lower level of my home has me stumbling onto nothing but the muddy boots I wore today while vaccinating and worming our latest studs, I curse my tardiness to hell before stuffing my feet into my boots and racing for my car.
Cash’s team’s season finished last week, but despite my offer to stay back with him to finish his press junket, he was insistent I come home and help with the latest muster.
My family would have held off if the weather was in our favor, but since it would have seen the wrangles drenched and sleeping in bunkhouses, I farewelled Cash before reluctantly commencing my first solo trip home in two and a half years.
It wasn’t a long trip. Cash was scouted by a team on the other side of the country, but he chose to stay local. So local, he trains at the South Harmon gymnasium, which means I got to see him every day while I finalized my last year of studies.
Mercifully, he was my only regular visitor.
Gabriel’s studies finished at the same time as Cash’s, and the last I heard about him, he was starring in a B-grade Broadway show. His nosediving career is karma for how he responded to the news that nothing Cash could have done would have saved his sister. Even with her death certificate exposing the truth, he didn’t believe a word I spoke. He continued trying to make Cash’s life a living hell, but regretfully for Gabriel, Cash was too busy living his best life to pay him any attention.
I’ll never look at library stacks the same way again.
Bleachers are a close second.
“Please, don’t do this. Not today,” I groan when my engine fails to kick over. “I have to pick up Cash from the airport.”
Things have drastically improved for Cash and Trenton over the past two-and-a-bit years. His father finally has a team of doctors who understand his brilliance and the challenges that come with it. Even his mother is getting help. She didn’t have much choice since Cash cut her off financially until she agreed to rehab.
But despite all this, Cash is still iffy about getting behind the wheel. He doesn’t want to be responsible for another death, so to him, not driving lessens the possibility tenfold. I haven’t had the heart to tell him the statistics on fatal accidents caused by motorists being distracted by their passengers.
“Fine!” I shout to no one when my car’s sluggish screams announce it won’t be starting anytime soon. “I’ll walk…” I’m still not a fan of exercise, so I quickly add, “To my mother’s car.”
I wonder whose grave I stomped on when I stumble over a basketball left haphazardly in the middle of the driveway. It looks like one of the many Cash has gifted Benji the past year, but something is scribbled on it with thick black ink.
“Just the net,” I murmur to myself after bobbing down to pick up the graffitied ball.
After straying my eyes to the left and drifting them to the right, I check the ball for any signs it has been tampered with.
When it appears untouched, I peer up at the basketball hoop dangling several feet above me.
It is as intimidating as it has always been, but it also rushes several beautiful memories to the forefront of my mind—my first tutoring session with Cash on the court, his first game—they come rushing in droves and fill my eyes with happy tears.
“Just the net,” I read off the ball again, my voice nowhere near as browbeaten.
Happy I am without witnesses, I prepare to take my shot. Except this time, I don’t bend my knees to increase my leverage. I spread them before pulling the ball down between them.
My underarm throw isn’t glamorous—I’m not even sure if it’s legal—but it is effective. It hits the net without an inch to spare, rustling the chain netting so effectively its tinkles are almost heard over the ruckus cheers of a ginormous crowd at my right.