Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Then, he smirks at the end of his answer. At the end of ‘roll with the punches.’ And I fist my hands because when has he ever rolled with the punches? When?
He’s such a fucking planner.
Such a fucking rule follower.
Not to mention, why’s he smirking like that? I mean, as much as I hated that he smirked at that girl in the bar, I now understand that he did it because they were making out or whatnot.
He was smirking at me – I remember that very clearly as well – because he was playing with me, trying to distract me from the truth.
But why is he doing it here?
Is he freaking flirting?
I don’t get to dwell on it because after he’s given that bizarre answer, he goes on to answer all the other questions that the girls have asked him. With the same smirk on his face.
And I don’t like that.
I don’t like that at all.
He’s flirting, isn’t he?
He’s freaking flirting with the girls and my legs are itching, itching to go and put a stop to it. And I can’t because I promised myself that I’d stay away from him.
Besides, I have no right to be jealous, do I?
I didn’t have any right to be jealous back at the bar and I don’t have any right here, either.
In fact, I have even less of a right now.
He’s not my sister’s boyfriend anymore – for stupid fucking reasons, if you ask me – so it’s not as if I can be jealous on her behalf.
Technically, he’s free to flirt, to kiss, to do other things with whomever he wants and it’s none of my business.
None of your business, Salem.
But Salem is stupid, okay?
Salem is a freaking idiot who has a super secret love for this flirting, smirking guy whose gym t-shirt is fluttering against his muscular body in the breeze and whose lips are so fucking gorgeous that I just want to die right here.
And before I can stop myself, I’m walking away from my friends and breaking off from the crowd. I walk around the huddle where the girls are still simpering, glaring first at Coach TJ because seriously, shouldn’t she put a stop to this?
Are we here to play soccer or have an impromptu Q and A session?
The second target of my glare is Arrow himself, the coach. With sun-struck hair, glittering blue eyes and golden skin, he wears his title well.
The Blond Arrow.
“I thought we were here to play soccer,” I say, loud and clear, effectively putting an end to all conversation and laughter.
My sudden appearance has jarred everyone. They weren’t expecting me or my curt words. I can feel their astonished and antagonized stares at my back. I can even feel Coach TJ looking at me with a glare of her own.
But I don’t pay them much mind because my eyes are glued to him, and his are glued to mine.
But then, he breaks our connection and his eyes move down.
They go to my nose first, then my lips, followed by my throat.
I swallow and he watches it.
I take a deep breath and he watches that too, studying my soccer uniform issued by the school. He studies my white t-shirt, my mustard-colored shorts. My knee-high socks and finally my soccer cleats.
He stares at them a beat like he did the other night when he gave me that hint, before lifting his eyes back up to my face and murmuring, “We are.”
“So, why aren’t we?” I ask, injecting all the fire in my tone even as my heart pounds under his thorough perusal.
From the corners of my eyes I see Coach TJ trying to say something, probably to set me straight, but Arrow beats her when he drawls, “Because we were waiting for everyone to arrive.”
Okay, so I guess we were a little late arriving on the field.
I should probably acknowledge that. Especially after what he said the other night about being punctual.
But I don’t.
Instead, I raise my chin. “Well, we’re here now. All of us.”
He runs his eyes – I swear, they’ve become dark, darker than they were a second ago – down my body once again and I have to fist my fingers.
“So I can see,” he says finally after he’s done studying me for a second time.
And for some reason I feel like…
I feel as if he was doing all this flirting on purpose. To provoke me and make me march up to him like I did in the bar the other night.
But that’s stupid, right?
Why would he provoke me of all people?
So I try to be sensible, sort of, and ask, “Can we play now?” But for some reason, I can’t stop myself from adding, “I thought punctuality was one of the cardinal rules around here.”
And then, he does something that I swear I’ve never seen him do in the past eight years that I’ve known him. Not to the cameras, not to Sarah, not to that girl even.