Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I wouldn’t survive, so watching over her became my job. If she fell off the swings, I was there to pick her up. If she was scared, I would make her feel safe. If someone pushed her, I put them on their ass. There was no me without her, at least not until football came along.
Only when I was on the field did I discover I was capable of caring about myself, too, and it didn’t take long for us all to realize I was better than most in the sport. Suddenly, not only Ari needed me, but so did my team. It was like the other half of my brain sparked to life.
Just like that, I had two purposes in life, and I fucking thrived on that fact.
“Trauma affects everyone different, Mase,” Ari whispers, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “You can’t blame them, hate them, or turn your back on them. The same way people process differently, they heal differently, too.” She looks my way, and I meet her gaze. “And some take a lot longer than others.”
A scoff leaves me, and I fight a smile. “Really? Just gonna leave that line hanging and hope I bite?”
Her brows draw in, worry blanketing her features. “Are you going to?”
A small scowl builds, and I look away. I hate that she’s concerned for me. She shouldn’t have to stress herself out over me and my shit.
Sighing, I change the subject. “I’m headed back to campus in the morning. Coach has a new trainer on staff he wants me working with. The team’s due back from break in a few days, and I guess since I’m the new Noah, it’s my job to make sure shit’s dialed in before they get there.”
Ari waits, hoping I’ll at least touch on what she was not so subtly trying to say, so I try to find a way to say what Ari thinks she knows without confirming or denying.
“Last year, I was champing at the bit to get there, and last night, I was sitting around trying to think of excuses my coach would believe so I could stay here a little longer.” My frown doubles. “Last summer, I felt good about the future, but I didn’t come back to what I left here last time.” I glance her way from the corner of my eye.
Ari’s face is full of understanding, and a small, sad smile curves her lips.
The line moves, and then it’s our turn, so we face the butcher with tight grins.
I don’t even hear what she ends up ordering, the sudden ringing in my ears is too loud.
I have to leave tomorrow, and I’m fucking terrified.
Too fast, the next morning rolls around, and when I walk out to my truck with my duffel hanging from my fist, my fears are validated.
Because unlike the last time, there’s no pretty little blond standing beside the hood with a baby carriage, just making sure she gets the chance to say goodbye.
It’s just me.
Me and the overwhelming sense of fucking failure.
“Last one, Johnson!” Coach Rogan shouts from the sideline.
I line up with the cones, dashing forward, only to cut back into the pocket. Assistant Coach Davies shoves out his pad from the left, and I roll right, evading. I dash to the marker, pull my arm back, and fake a pass, then return to the start.
I drop back, sling myself to the left when my secondary coach, Coach Nichols, approaches my right, my feet cutting across the grass. My arm shoots out, and this time, the ball launches from my fingertips.
A whistle is blown loudly, and I spin with a pant.
“Coach.” My hands go to my hips, my neck stretching to allow my lungs a deeper breath. “I got more in the tank. I can go another—”
“Just because you can doesn’t always mean you should. What did I say about releasing?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t bother with an excuse as to why I let the ball fly.
“You’re on a detailed workout for a reason. Stick to it. We’ll see you back here before dinner for your brief with Coach Manu. Shower and recovery. After that, head over to get your meals sorted with the dietician. They should have everything settled. You just need to make your selections and replace what you might not like.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He eyes me a moment before nodding. “We’re counting on you, kid. Now get out of here and get cleaned up.”
“Yes, Coach.” A bolt of electricity fires in my bones, and I give a curt nod. “Thank you.”
They’re counting on me.
They need me.
Mason Johnson.
I tear the towel from my shorts, swiping at the sweat rolling down my face and the back of my neck. A satisfied exhale burns its way past my throat, my workout having really done me in good, and I chuckle at myself.