Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Once I’ve allayed Mom’s fears, I heave myself off the couch, abandoning my uneaten crackers to go check the mail on the front stoop. The mailbox is stuffed with bills, flyers, more bills, more flyers—and a royalty check from Elise.
I step inside, leaving all but one envelope on the hall credenza. A knot forms in my stomach as I open the flap. Or maybe it’s the nausea ramping up again. But Elise did say obscene. She’d said obscene, right?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before staring down at the numbers on the check.
I see zeroes. And more zeroes. They keep going until my legs get a little unsteady and I reach for a chair.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
I’ve never seen so much money in my life.
This is a life-changing amount. Enough to carve a big dent in my parents’ debt. Maybe even get them out of that house. Oh my God.
The possibilities flood my mind. I’ll have to discuss it with Garrett. I heed the silent reminder, trying not to get ahead of myself. But this could be a real opportunity to change my parents’ lives.
If they allow it, a little voice reminds me.
Because it’s true, the last time I broached the subject of helping with their debts, they’d completely shut me down. Or rather, they’d shut Garrett down. After his rookie year, he’d signed a five-year multi-million-dollar contract with the franchise, so much money we’d both been floored by the amount. And being the amazing person he is, Garrett immediately offered to take care of my parents’ debts—to which they’d responded with an unequivocal no way.
And Garrett thinks I’m stubborn. I can’t even count how many conversations I had with them, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t budge. Mom said it wouldn’t be right. Dad said he refused to let his future son-in-law incur his debts. I swear, they’re too proud for their own good.
But this might be different. Technically this is “my” money, even though Garrett and I share our finances. If I play this carefully, maybe I can convince my folks to finally accept my help.
As excitement eddies in my stomach, I spend much of the afternoon researching home prices in Ransom, Indiana, and the penalties for breaking a mortgage early. I even leave a message for a real estate agent down there so I can ask some questions. Get a sense if this is even a feasible idea. But Lord, how incredible would it be if Mom and Dad could pay off their debts and move to Boston? Or hell, even Philly, if they wanted to be closer to Aunt Nicole. Obviously I’m partial to Boston, but I’d just be happy to have them out of Ransom.
That town holds nothing but bad memories for me and my family. When I was fifteen years old, one of my classmates sexually assaulted me at a party, and life was never the same after that. I was accused of some pretty horrible things, the worst being that I’d made up the entire encounter. My parents were shunned, ostracized, all the while being forced to interact with my attacker’s parents, one of whom is the mayor of Ransom.
Fuck that place. If Garrett’s on board, I’m spending every dime of that royalty check to rescue my folks, and this time they’re not going to stop me.
My spirits are soaring sky-high when Garrett gets home that evening. He’d messaged from the plane earlier complaining that the food sucked, so I make sure to have takeout waiting from his favorite restaurant.
No matter how short the time away, the minute he walks through the door, he greets me like he hasn’t seen me in months. Drops his bag in the hallway, grabs my hips, and presses his mouth to mine. The greedy kiss steals the oxygen from my lungs, leaving me breathless.
“Hey,” I say, smiling against his lips.
“They’ve got to stop sending me to these things.”
“That bad?”
“I feel like I should give those guys their money back.”
“So I guess we can cross pro golfer off your post-hockey retirement plan?”
“Shouldn’t seem that different, right?” We head toward the kitchen when he catches a whiff of the food warming in the oven. “A stick and a projectile. But half the time I couldn’t even tell where the damn ball went.”
I can tell from his posture that his poor performance on the green isn’t what’s really got him stressed out. In an earlier text, he’d given me the heads-up he’d agreed to do The Legacy with his dad, but hadn’t elaborated. I hate to broach the subject, but I’m too curious not to.
“So, ah, what made you agree to the ESPN sit-down with you and Phil?” I hedge, handing him a beer.
“I got strong-armed into it,” he grumbles before taking a swig. “Basically, the bastard went ahead and accepted on my behalf. Landon said it would raise too many eyebrows if I backed out now.”