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)
Maybe, maybe not. But that’s hardly the point. “How much money do you think I need?”
Dex shrugs. “You’re worth what the market demands and a top team can pay. If you want to take a cut to play in a farm town, that’s on you. She’s a stranger.”
It’s not a farm town.
“She’s not a stranger anymore. You’ve dated women and not seen them in person for months at a time. Shit, you were fucking Lana Lewis for two years and didn’t even know her birthday.”
He blinks back the truth, fluttering his lashes like a child who’s just been caught in a lie.
“Look.” I finally relent. “I need an excuse to go see her. If I set up a meeting, I’ll be killing two birds with one stone.”
“But doesn’t she think you’re broke? How are you going to show up in town and act casual about it? That’s giving stalker vibes.”
True. It could very well be. But since I know I’m not a stalker, I shrug off his words.
“So give me a reason to go see her.”
“Dude. There isn’t one—the timing is too sus.”
“Stop talking like a millennial.”
“I can’t. I am one.”
Barely, but I’m not going to argue.
“This isn’t helpful.”
My best friend shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. You need a damn good reason to be in Green Bay, or she’s going to think you’re loco.”
I lean back in my seat, squeaking my dad’s wooden desk chair. “You’re right. I need a better reason for being there.”
And I have time to think on it.
“Marinate on that shit,” Dex intones, spinning in his chair again as if it were a ride. “Don’t be so impulsive.”
I squint at him. “Why do I feel like you’re judging me?”
Dex thinks about my question—marinates, if you will—before dishing out the truth. “Do I think you’re the relationship type of guy? Yes. For sure. Do I think you’re the kind of guy who wants to date a nobody? No.”
I reel back, genuinely surprised by his words. “Sorry, what?”
“I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who wants to date a nobody.”
“Dude. Harlow is not a nobody—why would you say that?”
He laughs. “What did you say she does for a living?”
I rack my brain, not sure if I did tell him. “She’s developing a dating app.”
“Why? There are, like, hundreds of them already.”
“Dude, who cares? She’s an engineer.” Or something. Whatever that means, I have no actual idea. “She’s creative and wants to be the founder of something bigger than herself.”
Which sounds like something she would say.
“Bro. My point is you date supermodels and actresses. Name one woman who wasn’t in the spotlight. Just one.”
I rack my brain again, thinking long and hard. “Karla what’s her name.”
Dex looks at me blankly. “That cheerleader chick from college?”
“Yeah.”
“Technically I think dating a cheerleader from the university cheer squad—one that gets televised cheering during games—counts as someone in the spotlight. So try again.”
Shit. Does it?
Is he right? Do I only date women who are popular? I thought I was more well rounded than that, but it turns out, I’m a basic bitch.
“Judging by your silence, I gather you agree with me.”
“I don’t know.” I pause. “Am I that big of an asshole?”
“That doesn’t make you an asshole. It just makes you . . .” He searches for words. “Vain.”
Vain! I am not vain!
Dex laughs at the expression on my face. “Chill, dude—it’s not a bad thing.”
“Since when is being vain not a bad thing? I’m not vain, by the way. And I’m insulted.” I’m sputtering, absolutely beside myself with not-vainness, and I want him to take the words back.
They sting.
“My feeling is hurt.”
“Your one feeling?”
“Yeah, it’s tingling and kind of wants to shed a tear.” I swipe at my cheek, mock wiping off a tear.
“Maybe I phrased that wrong.”
I gawk. “You think?”
“No. I was saying that because it’s obvious you’re butt hurt, and I don’t want you to hold a grudge.”
“I wouldn’t hold a grudge.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, really. Remember that one time you won MVP of the Reiser Championship, and we stole your helmet before the next game but didn’t tell you it was your helmet we stole?”
How could I forget. The cocksuckers gave my helmet to a reporter who was in on the joke. The reporter asked me to sign it for an auction to raise money for a charity, and I signed the damn thing not knowing it was mine, then had to wear it during the next practice. A damn helmet with my damn autograph scrawled on it in big, bold, black letters.
I felt like a douchebag.
“You tried for an entire year to get back at us, but you didn’t know who actually stole your helmet, so you just pulled pranks on everyone.”
Yeah, that happened. “Because I was so irritated by the whole thing.”