Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Me: Haha no—they moved out of that house a few years ago.
I bought them a newer, bigger house—with cash—in a gated community because fans love seeing my folks as much as they love seeing me, and they needed more privacy and security than their old house could provide.
Mom fucking hated fans showing up and standing in the street to take pictures.
Weirded her out.
Weirded me out too.
Harlow: How long will you be in Ohio?
Me: At least a week? Maybe not? Few days, at least.
Harlow: So you have No plan . . .
Me: I mean, when you say it like that, yes, I have no plan. The plan is to have no plan at all.
Harlow: Well I hope you have a good time.
I hope you have a good time?
What’s that supposed to mean? Does she actually mean I should have a good time? Or is she trying to end this conversation?
Shit.
Me: I’ll keep you posted.
Harlow: Please do. LOL
I toss my cell on the seat beside me and throw my head back again, squeezing my eyes shut. I pass out and manage to sleep for the remainder of the drive to the airport.
I manage to sleep on the flight too. Then I’m happy to see my father’s face when he picks me up from the airport, and my mother pounces as soon as I walk through their front door.
She doesn’t waste a single second, dragging me straight to the kitchen.
I plop down in my usual spot at the kitchen table and wait for the barrage.
Mom loves a good gossip session. Loves hearing about the team, any trouble my teammates get themselves into, and their personal lives.
I am at her mercy, always.
“I bought the new GQ magazine,” Mom says, snapping me out of my stupor when she finds me staring at my phone, willing Harlow to text me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I look up at her when she doesn’t explain further, taking in the sight of the apron around her waist. But the joke is on us—she’s not wearing the apron because she’s cooking. She’s wearing it because she wants my father to think she is.
Current status: Mom is taking food out of take-out containers and putting it into casserole dishes of various sizes so she can slide them into the oven.
Sneaky little shit.
“I said I bought a few of the new GQ magazine. You’re on the cover this month.” She licks a serving spoon before setting it in the sink. “They hit the newsstands yesterday.”
I scrunch up my face. “Who even says newsstand anymore? Do those exist?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Mom scolds, opening the cabinet door where the garbage cans are stowed and stuffing the cardboard to-go containers into the trash.
“I don’t know why you bother buying those. I can have Trent get you magazines for free.” I pause, stealing an orange from the bowl in the center of the table, and begin peeling it. “And how many magazines do you have?”
She shrugs, wiping her hands on the apron. It’s blue and white and has embroidered strawberries on the pockets, and I’m pretty certain it belonged to my grandmother.
“Dozens.”
Dozens? Doesn’t surprise me. “Where do you keep ’em?”
“Dad has a file cabinet in his office.”
By office she means: the Landon shrine.
Thank God I don’t have siblings, or I’d never hear the end of it. The closest I have to a brother is my best friend, Dex, who plays for Arizona. I was traded two years ago, but we’re still as tight as we’ve ever been.
Maybe more so.
Which reminds me—I gotta call him and tell him about my twenty-four hours with Harlow. He’d get a kick out of it. And her.
“What do you do with the magazines?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “What do you mean what do we do with them? You’re our son—we give them to friends, and I have a scrapbook.”
I laugh. “Oh, I’m so sure your friends want magazines with my face on it—especially the new issue of GQ.”
On the cover I’m wearing dress pants with leather loafers—but I’m shirtless, oiled up, and have a suit coat draped over my shoulders like the biggest wanker known to man. Not that it was my idea; some stylist got me dressed. My job was to show up on time and do what they told me to do, the main cover line shouting Landon’s Next Move!
Mom sets the dishes on the table, making a show of arranging them, going back and forth to the fridge for the condiments, fussing, clearly thrilled to have me home.
Not home home—but their home.
Mom loves this house. It was the largest purchase I made after receiving my first big football paycheck, plunking down a few million to buy it for them.
Dad couldn’t give a shit about the house they live in, obviously, but my mom?
Dream come true.
Fact: you won’t find too many pro ballers who don’t feel they owe most of their success to their parents; the gratitude is as endless as the number of hours and miles they spent driving me to and from football and to and from football camps.