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)
Checking my watch, I frown. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for this meeting in Jersey. On the other hand, if I hightail it, I just may shit my pants.
This has escalated into a no-win situation.
Back to the hotel it is.
I take a healthy chug of my cola, hoping the carbonation settles my stomach, though I doubt it will, considering I most likely have food poisoning.
“I should probably call Trent,” I groan painfully, referring to my agent before slowly migrating toward the city stairwell that descends into the ground, my sluggish gait a direct counter to the threat of diarrhea.
“Please don’t s-shit yourself,” I stutter, officially the kind of guy who wanders around New York City mumbling to himself. “Dude, do not shit. Your. Pants.”
This is not okay, man.
I glance over to find a teenage girl openly gawking at me. She pulls a face, going straight to her phone, probably messaging her friends about the old guy by the subway about to defecate in public, and of course I’m sweaty and gross and this would be the day I’m wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.
I don’t think I’ve shit my pants since I was a toddler, vaguely remembering a time I battled Mom over going doo-doo on the toilet like a big boy. But I preferred shitting in my Pull-Ups diaper to going in the porcelain god.
I was the worst when it came to potty training, and it’s coming back to haunt me. Everything comes full circle, don’t it?
If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, come find me. I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick . . . you owe me.
What a smart-ass she was.
What a random thing to say to a stranger!
To me, to my face.
She clearly had no idea who I am.
I mean, it’s not as if I were doing that great a job hiding it. The baseball hat usually doesn’t conceal my identity all that well, especially in a city like this, full of superfans. I have a recognizable face, and ever since I became a free agent, the frenzy has my mug plastered on every media outlet.
Who is he going to sign with?
Speculation is rampant. I can’t go within pissing distance of a city without someone writing about it online.
Landon Burke Seen in New York Meeting with The Panthers
Landon Burke Seen in Philly Lunching with The Rockets
But this is New York, and I assumed not many people would give a second thought to who was standing next to them in line at the hot dog cart, not when so many celebrities call this city home.
Today, I was Andy from Cleveland, Ohio, visiting Central Park. This afternoon I’ll be Landon Burke, wide receiver with three Super Bowl rings and ready for a new team, a new city, a fresh start—and a fourth ring.
That young woman didn’t have the faintest clue who I am.
If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, come find me. I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick . . . you owe me.
Ha.
She’d have to find me to collect on that bet, and in this city that would be next to impossible, though I wouldn’t mind seeing the look on her face when I admitted she was right—on both counts.
She seemed like the type who would enjoy a good groveling confession.
As I stand in the subway terminal waiting for the next train to arrive, I fix my eyes on the rails. Stare at the coal-and-soot-covered rocks. The miles of metal. Listen to the distant sound of the engines, the squealing brakes. Feel the heat of the exhaust as it filters through the station, kicking up and creating a fine layer of grime.
If I stand here long enough, I’ll be filthy.
My stomach is in knots now, damned if it isn’t, the timing absolutely horrible.
The train enters the terminal.
Whizzes by.
Car, car, car, windows, car, people, car.
The sight makes me nauseous.
“Don’t puke, don’t puke,” I chant, putting my head down. Don’t shit your pants, don’t shit your pants . . .
I fight down bile before turning in the direction I came, taking the stairs two by two, my long legs desperate to escape, fingers fumbling for the keys on my cell, texting my agent.
Me:
I have an emergency. Can’t make it to Panthers.
Trent:
What the fuck do you mean you can’t make it to the Panthers? Dude, the meeting is supposed to start in an hour. They are Sending a car for you.
Me:
I know that, bro, but if I don’t get my ass back to my hotel, I’ll end up taking a massive dump on the sidewalk.
Trent:
You can’t just take a shit in a restaurant like a normal person? You’re Landon Fucking Burke for God’s sake—since when are you a diva?
Me:
Since I got food poisoning and decided to throw up in the park.