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)
The conversation was slightly critical on Leah’s part because they’d lost but nothing out of the ordinary. No signs whatsoever that there was something wrong with him.
I was actually mourning the fact that I wouldn’t get to watch him play all that much anymore because of the stupid TV rules at St. Mary’s.
So I really don’t get it.
What the fuck happened?
“Can you tell us how long you expect the recovery to take?”
Another question fired off screen and to him but this time, he isn’t even paying attention to them. He has his head dipped down and he’s looking at his fists on the table. He’s practically glaring at them and God, I have a very bad feeling about this.
Very bad.
What’s happening?
Why’s he acting this way, when he’s always been so professional and polite?
When the coach realizes that his player won’t answer the question – he looks kinda shocked by Arrow’s defiance too – he takes the reins. “It’s a very typical meniscus tear. I’m glad it happened during practice and we were able to get help quickly. It’s minor right now but we all know that knee injuries have a way of creeping up on you, especially if you play contact sports. So we want to take every precaution that we can so it doesn’t turn into something major.”
I swallow when Arrow still won’t look up.
His posture has gone even tighter, as if he’s repelling his coach’s words. As if he’s repelling everything that’s going on around him.
“Will you be staying in LA for the duration of your recovery?”
For some reason, it feels like the pause after this question is longer and heavier. Or maybe it’s my own anticipation of what the answer is.
My own anticipation to hear his voice, his rich, deep voice.
A voice that I dream about.
Leaning forward, he looks into one of the cameras and it feels like he’s staring directly at me. “No. It’s been kindly pointed out to me that I need to disappear for a while, go off the radar. So I can heal. Recover from the injury that frankly no one saw coming. And well, I agree. So I’ll be going east…” He trails off before his words become curt and clipped. “Back to my hometown, St. Mary’s.”
What?
No, no, no.
He didn’t say St. Mary’s, did he?
He didn’t say he’s coming back.
No, he didn’t.
He couldn’t have.
Because he can’t come back. I don’t want him to come back.
I don’t.
I want him to stay far, far away.
He was the reason I was running away that night. He was the reason I stole that money and I was going to go somewhere before they caught me and stuck me inside a cage.
So he can’t come back when he was the one I was running away from.
My Arrow, the guy I’m in love with.
My sister’s boyfriend.
Arrow.
It’s a crazy name, isn’t it?
I always thought so.
Crazy and unique and completely his.
I can’t imagine anyone else having that name. I can’t imagine anyone else owning that name like he does.
He wears it.
In every part of his sculpted face and his sleek body.
From his arched and arrogant-looking eyebrows to his high cheekbones.
God, his cheekbones.
They’re so sharp and yet so gracefully made that they almost cast a shadow on his jaw. His very angular and slanting jaw.
And then there’s his body.
It’s not bulky or massive but muscled and trim. Tanned from running under the sun. Athletic. Built for speed and precision on the soccer field.
Actually, every part of him is built and designed with such careful precision. Like someone up there decided to take their time with him. They decided to sit down and pick up tools, hammers and chisels so they could sculpt him and chip away at him and make him stunning.
That’s what he is.
Arrow Carlisle, the love of my life, is stunning.
Always has been, ever since he was fifteen and I was ten, and I saw him for the first time.
Even though it was eight years ago, I remember everything.
I can tell you that it was early morning and the sunlight was streaming through the window like laser beams. Everything was bathed in yellow in that room, the kitchen to be specific. Orange, even.
I was wedged between a china cabinet and the wall, sitting on the floor, my knees hugged to my chest. I had a blanket wrapped around myself and yet, I was cold.
So cold.
I’d made rounds of the entire house, trying to find a spot where I could find some warmth, but so far, I’d been unsuccessful.
But then, he burst through the kitchen door, all sweaty and panting.
I remember thinking that he was tall. And that when he moved through the space, the sunlight rippled. The rays cast tiny patterns on his tall form.
He made a beeline to the sink and turned on the tap. He threw water over his face, his neck, and he did it so violently, with such agitated gestures that a few drops landed on my cheek.