Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
At last, I close my eyes, but I sleep fitfully.
The wheels touch the tarmac in the dark of night, jostling me awake. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn, turn on my phone, and hope.
A few emails pop up from my agent, asking if I’m okay after the interview. Nikki messages, too, with a chin-up note. And then there’s a text from Declan.
My heartbeat races as I click it open.
Declan: One more thing. In case you can’t call me before your flight, here’s why I wanted to talk—just to say you did great in that interview, and I’m seriously proud of you. I meant ‘talk’ as in I wanted to hear your voice and find out if you’re okay. Man, texting is hard sometimes.
Relief crashes over me. I relax and smile, my body letting go of the tight wire of tension it had been clutching. All thanks to his reply.
Except . . .
This isn’t actually a response to my text.
I read his first text again—the one that said call me, the one that freaked me out—then I re-read this new one. It seems like we’ve been cross-posting. I find a newer message from him, replying to mine.
Declan: Love you so much too. Miss you. Thinking of you. Still want to talk to you about the interview and how you’re feeling. (P.S. I wrote the last message before we took off, but it didn’t send until we landed.) Have I mentioned that keeping in touch through text is fucking hard?
Yes, Declan. Yes, it is.
Text tag is my new least favorite game. Sure, I’m glad we’re finally in synch, but tonight feels like a train station where the conductors don’t know what’s happening on the other tracks.
Grant: I’m good now. Don’t worry about me. Get some sleep.
Declan: Same to you. Just got to my hotel. Need to crash for a couple hours. I do worry about you, babe. That’s my job. Let me do it.
Grant: If you insist.
Declan: I do insist. I’ll call you tomorrow.
I wish it were tomorrow now. And I also kinda wish I didn’t need him this much.
Love should come with a warning, or a handbook for how fantastic and terrible it is at the same time. This love with Declan is the best thing I’ve ever experienced. But every moment that reveals how starkly I need him, also betrays how much I’d be lost without him.
Needing someone means they can hurt you incomprehensibly if they leave. I don’t want him to ever leave my life.
And that’s a new awareness too.
But it’s not one I can bask in.
Since I’ve got to figure out what the hell to do with the discomfort of loving so big, so deep, so desperately.
13
Grant
I dread opening my social media in the morning. I bet there will be a flood of retweets and shares of Troy’s post-game interview ambush.
But a quick scan of my feeds brings a small smile and a measure of comfort. Most of the mentions are support from my fans. Plenty of eye-rolling gifs comments on the reporter’s video clip, and a hashtag picks up steam—#isharesigns—with fans suggesting the most preposterous ways they’d steal signs and share them with their team.
I hit like on many of their posts.
But even so, I’m going to need a hard workout and a long run to get Troy’s spurious report from my head.
My usual four miles isn’t enough, so I jog across the Golden Gate Bridge, drinking in the view of the Pacific Ocean and the cargo ships cruising by.
Eventually, I evict the bottom-feeder from my brain and head home to shower, then walk to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium to meet Owen and River.
“Have a London Fog latte,” Owen suggests when I find the two of them at a table in the back corner.
“A London Fog latte after a run?” River asks, arching a brow at his friend.
“There is never a bad time for a London Fog latte,” Owen declares.
When I first met the Dragons social media manager at a PR strategy lunch two months ago with Nikki and Declan, it was all I could do not to blurt, Wait. You’re THE Owen?
River had often mentioned his college friend Owen, then it turns out he works for Declan’s team. Small world. Now, River and Owen both sometimes join me at Alliance events.
“No, a London Fog latte is good at three p.m. with a cookie,” River says to Owen. I might as well not be here, but on the plus side, it lessens the burden of conversation.
Owen rolls his blue eyes at River’s latest opinion. “You’re so rigid.”
River winks. “That’s what he said.”
I give my California surfer dude friend a suspicious look, then cast a similar one to Owen. “Did I interrupt something with you two? I can come back when you’re done flirting.”
“Please, we’re not flirting,” Owen says in the biggest denial of all time.