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)
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes flickering back to the road once he catches me catching him looking at me. I smile, turning my face to gaze out the window at the fields, overcast skies, and the occasional bank, school, and fast-food restaurant.
We drive past a ranch-style house painted green and gold, with the team’s logo painted square in the center of its garage door.
“You’re in Packers country, now, sir,” the driver says. “My name is Sam if you need anything.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Andy.”
Landon.
Landon Michael Burke.
Andy rarely slips off my tongue anymore; like I said, not many people call me Andy, except my parents and family. My agent calls me Landon, and I signed with my first team as Landon—my teammates obviously call me by my last name.
Sam seems pleased to be on a first-name basis with me—pleased to be using a special nickname—I can see it in his eyes through the rearview mirror. He’s young and eager and no doubt is going to be texting all his friends once he’s dropped me off at the rental.
A house rental, actually. My agent didn’t think the hotels in this area would adequately house me for the night—his words, not mine. I’m not so big a snob that I wouldn’t stay at a Good Nite Inn or a motel.
Then again, Trent wasn’t sure a house rental would provide me with enough privacy or security to get me through the night without a bunch of Sam’s friends showing up on the doorstep or camping out on the curb to get photographs when I have to step outside.
It is what it is.
My meeting with the team management isn’t until tomorrow. I want to see Harlow first since she is the main reason I’m in town, although I would admit that only to Dex.
I’m tempted to video chat him again, but I have a feeling he’s sick and tired of listening to me go on and on about a woman he’s never met and that I barely know. In Dex’s mind the whole thing with Harlow is a bad idea, and he’s reminded me in the simplest terms. Daily.
The last thing I want to do is admit to my best friend that I chartered a flight, had my agent contact Green Bay after I told him I wouldn’t, and now I am holed up in a rental for twenty-four hours with the sole purpose of knocking on some chick’s door and surprising her with my presence.
Yeah, I won’t be giving him a buzz.
I pace around the living room of this family home in downtown Green Bay, probably wearing a path in the carpet with my pacing back and forth in front of the sofa.
I’m so fucking nervous.
“Turn the TV on, and watch something to get your mind off it,” I tell myself.
Dude, chill.
Just go over to her house, man. She’ll be excited to see you.
“She thinks you’re unemployed,” I remind myself out loud in an attempt to talk myself down off the ledge.
“Well, what the hell were you planning on doing then, you moron, if you’re going to fly all this way, and just stand here with your dick in your hand?”
I feel like there are only two things I can do at this point:
Call my mother and tell her about Harlow, how we met, that we slept together, and get Mom’s opinion on the matter—she is bound to have one. On the other hand, she’s going to tell me I’m a fucking idiot (not in those exact words but something close) and that I should meet with the team and get my ass home without seeing Harlow. I can hear the lecture already . . .
Look up Harlow’s address and head over. Wouldn’t be hard to find—how many Harlows could there possibly be?
One more lap around the room and my phone is in my hands, and I’m dialing my mom, hoping she’s available but also hoping she’s busy and doesn’t pick up.
I’m not that lucky.
Mom answers on the second ring, and I can see she’s in the grocery store, an aisle behind her, fluorescent lights above.
Shit.
She’s pretty well known, too, and if anyone overhears us chatting . . .
“How’s my favorite son?”
Ha. I’m her only son. “Good.”
She’s pushing a cart, arms leaning on the handle, balancing her phone and probably a shopping list.
“You don’t look good. What’s on your mind?” She squints at the camera. “Where are you?”
“Um.” I shuffle my feet. “Uh. Not Ohio or Seattle?”
“Is that a question? I thought you were at the gym.”
“Ma, I’ve been gone two hours.”
“What’s your point?”
I don’t have a point. “I’m in Green Bay.”
She stops pushing her cart, halting in the middle of a pasta aisle, jars of bright-red spaghetti sauce lining the shelves behind her.
Mom waits for me to say more; she knows me and knows I called for a reason and that I’ll say what I need to say when I’m ready for it to come out of my mouth.