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)
Anyway, she continues to fuss about the kitchen, anxious to have me here, yelling for my dad, who’s been MIA the entire hour I’ve been sitting here. I consider going online and having a rental car delivered to the house, so I don’t have to be driven around by my parents like a teenager without his license. Which they fucking love.
They love this shit. They love spoiling me.
Love having me here. Dad especially loves to talk about the game, the players, what’s going on with management, always sniffing out new information.
There is nothing they don’t know and nothing they don’t have an opinion on—particularly when it comes to my personal life.
Goddamn, they disliked my ex-girlfriend.
Mom couldn’t even stand her name. And before Paisley? There was Danica, an athlete in her own right that played on an American soccer team. That “relationship” lasted a mere three months. Before her, a string of models, an influencer approved by my publicist, and a country singer.
So what kind of woman does Mom want me to date?
The girl next door, probably, although we’ve never actually sat and discussed it. It’s not as if I’ve ever asked their opinion—they give it openly and freely as two people actively invested in my career since its inception: my birth.
Dad walks into the massive breakfast room, where Mom and I relocated because it’s more comfortable. And, yeah, the house is so damn big it has its own room for breakfast—or a sunroom or whatever it’s called. Fancier than when I was a kid. I ate at the kitchen counter like a normal person ’cause we didn’t have a dining room, and now here we are, eating in this monstrosity because it makes my mother happy.
Dad slaps me on the back—his version of a hug, which he reserves for games. The games we win.
“Glad you’re home.”
I nod, already eating one of the buttery rolls Mom set down before me, stuffing my face as if I haven’t eaten today, which isn’t the case because I ate on the plane, and it wasn’t half bad.
“Same.”
“How long you stayin’?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.” Sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I met with New York this week.” I’m not sure how much information to share at this point; they don’t need to know Trent had to take the meeting for me.
He nods, pleased.
He’s a fan of the team and the money they would bring me.
Dad looks around at the table Mom just finished setting and grins. “Thanks for making lunch, Beth. I’m starving.”
Mom smiles proudly. “I was in the mood. Hope you like it.”
He does. “Love me some chicken.”
She blushes as if she’s spent the entire morning in the kitchen cooking—happy to lie to my father to make her life easier.
I roll my eyes and serve myself.
Yawn through most of the conversation, already ready for bed.
“Why are you video chatting me, dude? What the hell?”
At first I thought it must be a butt-dial, but no—Dex Lansing meant to call me. I can tell by his shit-eating grin that he’s pleased I’ve been properly irritated.
“I miss you, man—is that a problem?”
“No. It’s just weird.”
He pauses, staring at me through the phone. “Dude. Where even are you?” He pauses. Squints. “Is that football wallpaper?”
Yeah. Yeah it is. “I’m in my dad’s man cave. Apparently this is how he wanted to decorate, like my teenage bedroom.”
“Holy shit, that is literally the same shit my grandparents had up in my dad’s bedroom growing up.” He laughs. “Vintage.”
“Shut the fuck up. He likes what he likes.”
Dex holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not knocking the guy; I’m stating facts. I’d never judge a man for his wallpaper—unless it was some lame sport like hockey or soccer.” He sniffs. “You should see my old man’s office; it’s like a shrine to yours truly. Every trophy or medal I ever received is in a frame, on a shelf, or behind glass. Like a goddamn funeral memorial.”
We both laugh ’cause we know exactly what the other one is talking about.
Neither of us mention the signed jerseys, signed footballs, signed football cards, and other memorabilia in our fathers’ offices or man caves. It’s an expensive hobby, but not as expensive when your son plays in the NFL. You wind up with loads of free shit that could fetch a fortune.
I get to the point. “What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
He lets out a low whistle. “Can’t a man call his best friend to see how his meeting in NYC went?”
Dex is the only person besides my parents who knows what I was actually doing in New York, although the media had its suspicions. It’s not a crime for a player to visit other teams, but it is fucking sus.
“He can, but next time, actually call.”
“What. You’re not feeling pretty?”