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)
“No, I’m not feeling pretty. I was on a flight this morning and have been up since the ass crack of dawn. I feel like total shit.”
Tired, run down, drained: pick one.
“That’s a lie.”
“What?”
“That you were up at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Dude, I was.” Why is he arguing with me?
I lean back in my dad’s leather recliner, resting my head, sinking in. I’d be comfortable if I didn’t have to hold the phone away from my body so I could chat with this moron, but there’s no getting around it. I’m stuck with my arm suspended because of the phone in my hand.
I blow out a puff of air. “I met someone in New York.”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you went there for?”
He is such an idiot sometimes.
“No, dude—I mean, I met a woman.”
“What kind of woman?”
Jesus. “A cute one.” A sexy one. A clever one with a smart mouth.
“And?”
“And . . . we texted back and forth when I was on my way to the airport this morning, and she hasn’t texted me since.”
Dex pauses.
Stares.
Lets out a loud laugh so fucking annoying I want to end the call and put my phone down.
“What’s so GD funny?” I’m scowling now.
“You. You’re funny.” He’s laughing so hard now he swipes at his watering eyes. “Please tell me there’s a woman on this planet whose panties aren’t wet for hotshot Landon Burke himself.”
I casually shrug, unsure how to start my story. “In my defense she doesn’t know I’m a hotshot.”
Which is the truth. But it is kind of annoying that we haven’t had any communication since her last text, which was hours ago and entirely my fault because I have no idea what to say. Where have my balls suddenly gone?
“What’s that supposed to mean, she doesn’t know you’re a hotshot?”
Jeez, this is embarrassing. “She didn’t recognize me.”
Dex shrugs. “So?”
“She literally had no clue who I was and doesn’t watch football and knows nothing about the sport. So when she started asking questions about me . . .” I shrug again. “I didn’t tell her the whole truth. Because it felt nice.”
“What. Like you lied?”
“No. When she asked what I did for a living, I told her I was between gigs.”
“Not really a lie. That’s facts.”
“Okay, bro—she thinks I’m unemployed.”
That makes him laugh harder, and for a few seconds he disappears off to the side of the screen, falling off whatever chair he’s sitting on and rolling on the floor.
Dipshit.
Seriously. He’s being an asshole.
“Wait.” He can hardly speak he’s wheezing so hard, waving a hand in front of his face as if that’s going to help him breathe—or talk—the motion reminiscent of a teenage girl trying to catch her breath. “Do you mean to tell me she thinks you’re broke as a joke and was still flirting with you?”
This is where my story gets personal. “We spent the night together.”
“She spent the night with some tool she thought was Unemployed?” His head is shaking. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Okay—you’re carrying on way too long over this, get over it, bro. Move on.”
“I can’t. Who dates someone they think might live in their parents’ basement?” He considers this. “Where does she think you live?”
“I told her I live in Seattle, but she knows I’m spending some time with my parents. Fuck you, dude, whatever you’re about to say. Harlow is cool.”
“Ohhhh, it’s Harlow now, is it? La-di-da.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t be a pussy, stay and argue with me.” He’s laughing again. “This shit is too good.”
I bring my phone closer to my face. “You better not repeat any of the shit I’m telling you, I swear to God.”
“When have I ever repeated anything you’ve told me?”
Never. But there’s a first time for everything. Especially during press interviews, which we routinely have to do, and those fuckers in the media will ask anything. They know Dex Lansing and I are friends, and he’s not exempt from an inquisition during a postgame interview.
He knows it and I know it.
He’s being obtuse on purpose.
“So her name is Harlow.” A plate of food suddenly appears in his lap—pizza—and I wonder if he has a woman in his condo or if his housekeeper is there.
I’m assuming it’s the latter and don’t ask.
“Yes.”
“Where’s she from?” He takes a bite of one slice, and I can’t help but notice it’s covered in meat, his favorite.
“Green Bay.”
“Oooooh, the frozen tundraaa . . .”
“Would you stop talking like that?”
“Talking like what?” He’s chewing with his mouth open, and it’s disgusting. Did his mother teach him no manners?
“Dragging out the words like there’s some hidden meaning.”
He continues chewing—loudly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
God, he’s so obnoxious. Why am I friends with him?
“What else? She’s from Wisconsin, she doesn’t know you’re a professional.” More chewing and swallowing. “Does she know your real name?” He laughs around a chunk of crust.