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)
Drew’s not just any pro baller.
He’s a damn good one. He needs to have faith in himself. Maybe he needs to know others have faith in him too, even if he has one imperfect game.
When I see him again, I’ll tell him as much. Only, I have no idea when that’ll be.
After I go home, change, and head to the stadium, I decide I’m not going to leave this moment to chance.
26
THE REAL STREAK
Drew
Carter can’t stop laughing. He goes on for thirty seconds and once he’s done gasping for breath, he points at me over FaceTime in case I didn’t realize I was the butt of a joke. “I wish I’d recorded that. I’d play it at your wedding.”
I jerk my head back, staring hard at his face on the screen. “What are you talking about?”
“That whole thing you just said. I walked away from the best relationship I’ve ever had because I can’t handle being an adult.”
I groan. “That is not what I said.”
“But that’s what I heard,” he says, laughing once again.
I stop pacing around my condo and drop my head into my hand. “Why did Maddox tell me to talk to you? Is he a prankster?”
Carter scoffs. “Because he knew I’d tell you the cold, hard truth,” he says, turning starkly serious. “You didn’t fuck up a game because you fell in love. It was just a game, man. One that you didn’t happen to win. Don’t throw the woman out with the L.”
I blink and shake my head like a dog shaking off water. “What did you just say?”
He repeats the part about the game, but I gesture for him to back it up. “The other part.”
“Oh,” he says with a laugh. “The part about you being in love? Yeah, that’s why you’re all weird and shit. You’re in love with her, and you freaked out. And you totally can fucking handle football and love. You’re a pro baller, so go out and do it.”
I take a moment to let the weight of his words sink in. Then I check the time.
Oh, fuck.
Then, as I spin into action, I spot a silver charm on my nightstand, and it gives me an idea.
Traffic sucks.
“C’mon,” I mutter as I check the clock on the dashboard for the fiftieth time. I’ve got ten more minutes to go one mile.
It could take an hour, or it could take a few minutes.
Most likely it will feel like a year.
But luck shines down on me, and I cover the final mile in eight minutes, pulling into the players’ lot and snagging the first spot I see.
I grab my phone without checking my messages, without calling Brooke. I don’t want to do this on the phone. I want to see her in person.
And I want to be a man of my word.
I said I’d do the tour, and when you say you’re going to do something, you should damn well do it.
I run to the players’ entrance then downstairs to the corridor that leads to the locker room, where the tour starts. I pick up the pace until I spot a group milling around the door one hundred feet ahead—twenty or so reporters, then Clements, then…
There she is.
Wow.
She looks stunning, and I’m such an idiot for letting her go.
I don’t slow down.
I’ve got ten seconds to be on time, and I’m going to fucking be on time for my commitments.
Especially the one I made to Brooke when I told her I was falling for her. Part and parcel of that is I won’t want to cool off again.
She spots me, looking at me as if I’m as unexpected as a housecat wandering through the stadium. Her head tilts, her brow furrows, and her face is unreadable. Her poker face is tight, but her brown eyes are full of questions and, I think, hope.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s gorgeous in her black skirt and red blouse, her blonde hair twisted up on her head.
But it’s her heart that I want most—the heart that wanted to give me space.
Fuck space.
I don’t want that anymore.
I’m about to run past all these reporters when a guy in glasses speaks first, stopping me. “Hey, Drew. We didn’t think you were going to be here.”
A redheaded woman with freckles goes next. “Are you joining the tour after all, Drew?”
Then Clements strides forward and gives me a fist bump. “Always showing me up,” he says with a smirk.
“Thanks for being my backup,” I say, but I’m not in the mood to joke.
I’ve got eyes for one person and one person only.
“I’d love to show you all around,” I say to the reporters, my gaze locked on Brooke’s. “But there’s something I have to do first.”
I walk past them all, and they part, letting me reach her quickly.
She purses her lips and waits for me.