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)
I don’t believe him, obviously. “Yeah, I’m so sure that’s the best thing you’ve had all day.”
“It is. I haven’t had breakfast.”
He winks—actually winks at me—before meandering off down the trail, two sticks of meat in one hand, a soda in the other, whistling as if he hasn’t a care in the damn world.
I stare after him, stepping into his spot for my turn; all the while he strolls down the sidewalk and into the park, where he’ll no doubt find a bench before continuing on his run.
At the window I order a hot dog with ketchup—okay, two—smiling sweetly when Reyansh hands them down to me.
I take a bite of one. “Mmm,” I enthuse as warm liquid oozes out the back of the bun and plops down the front of my white T-shirt.
“Dammit!”
When I swipe at it with a napkin—huge mistake; I should know better—it smears across my boobs. Shit, has anyone noticed?
I glance up.
No one has noticed. This is New York, and everyone is doing their own thing, and no one cares that the young woman with the long brown hair has a massive red stain on her boobs because the blob probably looks designer.
And the good-looking stranger? He’s gone, jogging through the park, no doubt luckier than I am when it comes to food.
Chapter 2
Andy
“Dear God, take me now.”
Swallow me whole, this is a nightmare.
That chick might have been right about the chicken.
Correction: not might have—she was—and I’m paying the price, right here in the middle of Central Park.
As I hunch over a green trash can, sucking in a breath before I vomit into the dirty, bee-infested abyss where garbage goes to die, her sassy words come back and haunt me: You can get sick from undercooked meat, and You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I have salmonella poisoning.’
How the hell did she know it would be undercooked?
What kind of sorcerer is she?
I retch again, damning Reyansh and his feeble promise not to do me dirty. He said the words to my face. I’ve been visiting his food cart for the past three days, but this was the first time I’ve ordered anything other than a hot dog, and now I may not live to regret it.
Bastard.
Feeling as if my stomach is going to fall out of my ass, I lift my eyes to see if anyone is watching me—or worse, filming or photographing me—adjusting the brim on my baseball hat, dragging it down lower over my forehead to shield my eyes. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me, snap a picture, and sell it to the press.
I do not need images of me vomiting into a trash can all over social media.
Picture the headline: Landon Burke, Drunk in the Middle of the Day, Vomits in Central Park with Families Nearby.
Yeah, no.
I don’t have time to be sick like this.
I have shit to do, people to see, places to be.
Did I say Shit to do? I meant things. Things to do, people to see, places to be.
Ignoring the fact that I just made a rhyme, I wipe the saliva from my mouth with the hem of my T-shirt.
The gurgling continues.
“This cannot fucking be happening.”
Oh, Andy, But it is.
Me.
The most badass bro in America.
And only an hour before my impressive, important meeting this afternoon. I can’t show up smelling like puke and looking like total shit.
But.
Silver lining, I am the honored guest. And though they wouldn’t be able to tell me to my face that I’m abhorrent, management would be thinking it. Wondering what kind of teammate I’d make, wondering if they’d made a mistake inviting me here, wondering if all the hype was because of a PR machine.
On the other hand, I’m not the one trying to sell myself—they invited me here. I’m not the one putting on this production of a presentation. I’m not the one who has to dress to impress.
I am in town to see what their clubhouse is like. Take a tour of the facility, though I’ve been in both the stadium and the visitors’ locker room as an opposing player many times before. They’ll give me a figure, a monetary amount of what they think I’m worth and what might get me to play here.
If they’re smart, they’ll offer me the sun, moon, and stars to play here. Anything less and my ego will be butt hurt.
I make the mistake of glancing down at my shirt—the entire situation could probably have been avoided if I’d listened to that bossy little monster. The fact I have to search the fabric for literal chunks of meat is embarrassing.
My stomach churns.
Actually bubbles . . .
That is not a good sign.
I haven’t been this sick since college, where I may have partied a little too hard on the occasions when I could, and God forbid this problem comes out the back end while I’m strolling around the park.