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)
We strike fast when I throw a twenty-yarder to Clements. He gives it a good home in his welcoming arms, then rushes for twenty more yards before he scrambles out of bounds.
Like that, we set a relentless pace, driving downfield until our running back puts us in the end zone.
Look at that. Two minutes into the game, and we’ve got seven points on the board. I rip off my helmet when I reach the sidelines, high-fiving Clements, then Rand, our running back.
Clements darts under the bench for his hacky sack, and then points at Rand. “You in or out? Adams and I have this thing—”
Rand scoffs. “I know. I’m fucking in.”
The three of us kick the hacky sack during the commercial timeout, but game play resumes, and we give our attention to our brothers on D. We root on the defense as they force a fourth down from the Las Vegas Pioneers. Then we’re back on offense, and we put the ball in the end zone once again.
By halftime, we’re up by twenty-one points, and Coach fights off a smile as he tells us to keep it up. Which we do, winning the game.
“Talk about a fucking streak,” Clements shouts when I enter the locker room after the game.
I hold my arms out wide. “All I do is throw ’em. You’re the one who catches ’em.” I point to the guys on D. “And you all are an impenetrable wall.”
The high spirits continue as I shower and dress. When I leave the locker room, Stephen’s waiting for me in the corridor. “Stop making us look so smart for trading for you,” he deadpans.
“Sorry, not sorry,” I say.
He sighs contentedly. “Exactly.” Then he shifts to business. “Tavarez called me over the weekend. Young Athletes has a fundraiser in a couple of weeks. Don’t want to wear you out, but your name has come up as an emcee for the auction of sports memorabilia. Think about it. I know you’re busy and—”
“I’m there,” I say, cutting in with my yes.
“Stop making my job so easy,” he says with a smile.
“Seriously, I’m happy to do it. And I got your message about the game night for the Every Kid organization on Tuesday. You can’t keep me away from Skee-Ball.”
“Terrific. I’ll be there, and Brooke will stop by too,” he says. “And we’ve got a dinner Wednesday night—the three of us. To discuss all these upcoming events.”
I hide a private grin at the bonus chances to see her this week and head to the exit to find Mom and the doubles. As I walk, though, a nagging voice dogs my heels.
You don’t want to sneak a chance to see her. You want to see her for real.
But is she ready for that too? Is she even ready to talk about it? Or is it too soon to try to pull that off?
I grab my phone to fire off a text to Brooke, just to see if she enjoyed the game. And maybe to let her know I’m thinking about her. But I stop when I see Mom, Tom and the twins waiting for me at the door. I tuck my phone away. Now’s not the time to be thinking about my secret affairs.
I try to stay in the moment as I take the family out for a late dinner at a trendy diner a few miles away.
“All right, got any game tips?” I ask Mom after we order.
“You’re four for four. What could I possibly have to say?” she asks as Sophie grabs a pack of sugar.
“You must have something,” I push.
“Don’t throw a pick,” Sophie says, as if she’s parroting someone. She’s mainly busy setting a sugar packet on the end of her spoon.
Tom tsks, setting a gentle hand on hers. “Don’t fling sugar. Not unless you’re sure you can land it in a cup of water.”
Sophie giggles.
Wide-eyed, I watch the exchange and then stare at Mom. “Were you praying against interceptions again?”
“What? I have my rituals too. I pray you won’t throw picks.”
“Don’t get sacked. Don’t get sacked,” Mira says, with a devilish glint in her eyes, parroting Mom too.
Mom hides her face in her hand for a moment, then looks up, admitting, “Fine, the jig is up. I pray for good plays. And I pray against bad plays.”
Reaching across the table, I ruffle her hair. “You’re the cutest worrier,” I say just as Tom snaps a pic of the moment.
“Sending to you now,” he says to me. “It’s so sweet. You should post that.”
I love my mom, and I’m not posting it for cred. I’m posting it because she’s the reason I can play ball for a living.
I caption it My first coach and my biggest fan.
I’ve relied on Mom for advice my whole life. When we’re done eating, I let Tom and my sisters walk ahead of us, hanging back to snag a minute with her. “Need your advice, Mom.”