Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
As easy on the eyes as Beck is, I can’t blame her for keeping him at a distance. He’s a player, and Mia has experienced enough pain in her life to willingly invite more. I might have been gone for a year, but I can’t imagine that much has changed where Beck Hollingsworth is concerned.
Unlike me, Mia knows better than to try and tame a bad boy.
“We could always look for another apartment and, if we find something, try to get out of the lease,” she says, breaking into my thoughts.
I glance around the newly decorated space. I like what Mia has done with the place. Already, after only being here for two weeks, the apartment looks homey. It would be such a pain in the ass to move again. Not to mention, I really do love that balcony.
Am I really going to allow Colton Montgomery to chase me away from here?
Nope. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Decision made, I blow out a breath and shake my head.
Mia’s shoulders loosen from around her ears as a tentative smile curves her lips. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll barely see him. You’re busy with dance, and his season is just beginning. You’ll be like two ships passing in the night.”
You know what?
She’s probably right. I’ve got nothing to worry about.
And if Colton has any brains whatsoever, he’ll avoid me like his life depends on it.
Because guess what?
It does.
Chapter Sixteen
Colton
“Montgomery, get your ass off the field!” Coach barks when I fumble yet another pass. “Kwiatkowski, take his place!”
Fuck.
I need to get my shit together before I get pulled permanently from the line-up. Instead of making eye contact with Beck, I stare at the turf and jog off the field. I already know what I’ll find in his eyes, and that’s a—what the hell is going on with you look. I can’t blame him for it either.
The last couple of practices have turned out to be a shitshow. Passes I should be catching with ease are getting dropped, missed, or slipping right through my fingers. On one of the last plays, I actually tripped over my own damn feet. If you didn’t know better, you’d think I had never seen a football, much less held one in my hands.
Ever since I stepped foot on the field when I was a kid, my game has been consistent. I don’t have high-highs or low-lows. I’m a solid player. Dependable. Coaches know this. My teammates know it. Beck knows it as well. I’m always in position, ready to catch whatever my QB throws my way.
Except today.
And yesterday.
Not to mention the day before that.
Now that I think about it, my game has been off for the last week—specifically since my run-in with Alyssa. I can’t stop thinking about her or searching for her. I’m like a stalker, hanging around the building, trying to catch sight of her.
Most people, the ones who know jack about football, think the game is all brute strength and physicality, but that’s not true. There’s a mental component. And that’s where I’m falling short. My head is no longer in the game. It’s wrapped up in my ex. Unless I can turn things around on the field, I’ll be riding the pine for the foreseeable future. And that’s never happened before.
Coach ignores me for the remainder of practice while Kwiatkowski, our second-string wide receiver, runs through a handful of plays with Beck. And wouldn’t you know it, the junior receiver catches every damn pass thrown to him. It only compounds the feelings of powerlessness already wreaking havoc on me. I’ve been first-string since I stepped foot on campus freshman year. My spot has never been in question.
Now it feels like I could lose everything I’ve worked for in an instant. By the time Coach blows his whistle at the end of a two-hour practice, my head is a mess. I need to get out of here and figure out how I’m going to fix this problem.
Once in the locker room, I keep to myself. I’m not in the mood to joke around with these guys. Even though I remain silent, Beck doesn’t take the hint. Instead of giving me a wide berth, he drops onto the bench and peels off his jersey before tossing it in the locker.
I feel the heaviness of his gaze burning a hole through me. He might not give voice to all the questions swirling through his brain, but I hear them loud and clear. Beck and I have been playing ball together since we were kids. We recognize each other’s tells and quirks. Half the time, I know what play he’ll run before he does. The guy never has to seek me out on the field. I instinctively know where I need to be and get into position. As far as football is concerned, we have some kind of weird mental connection going on. It’s what makes us so good together.