Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
My heart squeezes with affection. But at least she’s not working herself to the bone like she was when she was a single mom, raising a kid alone. She handled it all, working late nights, but showing up for every game. My senior year of high school, she met a good dude on the apps, falling hard for a mechanical engineer who dotes on her and their two girls—their oops and we don’t regret it babies.
After what my dad put her through, leaving her with nothing, she deserves the love and affection she gets from her husband.
She also deserves this pool that she’s lounging by at her home in Sherman Oaks.
The pool came from me. Bought it last year for her as a long overdue gift, since she always used to joke that someday she’d lounge by the pool.
Drew: Glad you and the doubles are enjoying the water. I’ll come see you soon, but you’d better bring those mermaids to my first game!
Mom: Trident himself couldn’t keep them away. They love rooting for their big brother.
I close the thread with Mom as the car slows at a light. I check the time, figuring I should be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. Even though the event should be fun, I’m counting down the seconds till after the meet and greet when I get to see Brooke again. I’m stoked to tell her about the trade and then talk about anything besides football.
Maybe I’ll mention the trade to her in a text, so we won’t have to talk shop over tacos. I’d rather talk sex positions and what makes her tick. My goal tonight? Getting to know her better.
Then, getting to know her better in bed.
Oh, shit.
I haven’t told her I’ll be late.
I return to my text app, then fire off a new note to her.
Drew: Hey, rock star goddess surf angel. I have to do a work thing this evening, but I should be able to meet you at eight at Tacos Are Life. But I promise the delay will be worth it. I’ll owe you an extra O for my tardiness.
Then, as I wait for her reply, I read our prior notes.
There’s the one from Sunday when we made plans while we were in her kitchen. Plus, the text I sent this morning.
Drew: Tacos. I can’t stop thinking about tacos.
Her reply was pure Brooke.
IOU: I never stop thinking about tacos.
She even wrote back again this afternoon, adding, Can’t wait to devour tacos—and you.
Rawr. The woman does like dirty talk. I replied with If I weren’t heading into practice right now, I would tell you all the ways I want to devour you.
Tell me later, big stud, she’d said.
There’s time before we reach the hotel in Santa Monica to give her some more of my ideas. While the driver navigates through traffic, I tap out another text.
But before I hit send, my phone rings with a call from my buddy Patrick, and I answer right away. Bet he has good money news. “Let me guess. You made money turn into more money today.”
He laughs, then says, “So much you’re going to build a shrine to me for what I did.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s going to be one hundred feet tall, and you will lay gifts at my feet.”
“Are you dead in this scenario? Are you lying in the shrine? Paint the picture more fully for me. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“And maybe I won’t tell you about the sweet deal I just got on a new IPO. For you.”
“Tell me. You know you want to,” I goad.
My longtime friend rattles off details of a stock trade he made for me when a new app went public this morning. It’s all Martian to me, but Patrick is a finance wizard, which is why he handles my portfolio. We go way back, and he’s magic when it comes to ROI.
“That sounds a lot like blah, blah, blah to my ears, but your blah, blah, blah usually makes me dollar signs, so go forth and do it,” I say.
“I am the king of blah, blah, blah,” he says, then takes a beat, shifting gears. “You ready for tonight? You feeling good? Need anything?”
Patrick is the big brother I never had. We grew up in the same apartment building, and our moms were best friends too. Still are. He’s two years older so he likes to check in on me, and it’s kind of sweet.
“I am. It should be fun. I hope the vibe is chill and not all tell me about the baby daddies and where they went.”
“And if anyone does ask you about the players who are gone, you just say I’m just here to play football. Repeat after me.”
“I’m just here to play football,” I echo.
“Bingo. You can indeed be trained.”
I arf like a seal.