Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
The guy shoves the phone in my face. “Do you think you have a shot at recovering your status as one of the best players in the SEC? Are your hopes for the NFL gone?”
When you’re golden, reporters love you, but when you’ve lost your shine, they dig a hole and throw you in.
“Don’t answer that, River!” Miss Janie darts back to her desk and fiddles with a button I know is hidden under it.
“I got this.” I saunter over to him and smile. “Hello, everybody. River Tate here. I assure you Braxton is still one of the best football programs in the country.” Then, I snatch the phone out of his hand and scan the screen to see if it was live. Shit, it is. I smile into the camera then wink. “Sorry, folks, this video is unauthorized. Have a great day!” I turn it off and stuff the cell into my pocket.
He shoves at my chest. “Hey! That’s mine!”
My teeth grit, but I don’t punch him. Sure, I’ve been known to lose my temper. I’m passionate—but not stupid.
I wait for the ping.
Right on cue, the elevator doors open and two bulky guys in their early thirties appear.
Dressed in black, they wear the campus security logo on their shirts. Stun guns are on their hips. “Denny and Ken. How’s it going?” I ask with a grin. They’ve broken up a few of our frat parties. They usually give us a warning to pipe down then leave.
I point my finger at the reporter. “Red here brought in an unauthorized recording device. Miss Janie explained it, but he didn’t listen.” I slap the phone in Denny’s hands.
He nods, all business. “Thanks, River. Sorry, Miss Janie. He must have slipped in one of the maintenance doors at the back of the building.”
“All I wanted was a story! Everyone wants to know what happened!” the man says as they get on either side and escort him to the elevator.
Ken gives me a chin nod. “Good to see you, River.”
I smile. “Later. Stop by the house when you’re off duty. Bud Light, right?”
He gives me a thumbs-up as they leave. “Will do.”
Miss Janie pulls at her little cardigan, her feathers clearly ruffled.
“You okay?”
She shakes her head. “It’s been a while since someone busted in here. I need a margarita. I’m glad you were here, River.”
Ah. Yeah. The question is, will I be here for long…
Later, I stand outside Edward’s office. He’s my student-athlete academic advisor.
Just get it over with.
I finally knock on the doorframe.
“Come on in, River. How are you doing?”
I reply with a noncommittal answer. He’s not Miss Janie. I’m just a number to him.
“Good, good, have a seat,” he murmurs as he opens up a thick folder with my name on it. “We have a few things to talk about. Most importantly, we need to know if you have made your decision about the draft or if you want to return to Braxton next semester?”
Cement lands on my chest. “My mind changes every day, sir. One minute I want to stay, and the next I want to take my chances as a low draft pick.”
He frowns. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
He laughs a little under his breath as he shakes his head. Dude doesn’t get how my brain works. “I see. What are you thinking today?”
A long sigh comes from me. “Let’s say I want to come back. Are my grades okay, or am I in trouble?”
He types some more on the computer, his expression hardening as he furrows his brow. “Your grades suck in this lit class.”
No shit.
“You’re cool in Dances of North America, Beginning Improv, and Modern Art.” He looks at me. “I told you not to take this literature class. I had that geology one lined up. Much less reading.”
“Right.” I sigh. That geology class is known as Rocks for Jocks. I’m wary of easy classes people ‘like me’ take. They’re boring—well, except for the dance one—and don’t require complex thinking. I can analyze content—once I’ve digested it.
“You don’t have enough hours toward graduation and still haven’t declared a major. At this point, I can maybe pull you a general studies major next year,” he muses as he stares at my transcript. He tilts the computer toward me, and I blink, the small words running together. I can’t make sense of it, not in this light. I glance away, an empty feeling in my stomach. Why can’t I just be normal?
“I’m majoring in football and everyone knows it,” I say grimly. “I want a degree—for my mom.”
What would I even do with a degree?
Mom sold Dad’s Mercedes dealership to retire, so I can’t sell cars. My freshman year, I entertained the idea of being a sports announcer, but if you can’t follow the prompter on TV, who would hire you? Sure, the NFL is an option, but after this last season…