Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
When I tilt my head up, the guy across from me is looking straight at me. As soon as our gazes meet, he turns away.
Okay, well, that was strange, but it’s LA and people-watching is a thing, so I ignore it and get back to work.
The feeling doesn’t go away, though, and it’s hard to concentrate. It’s like I don’t fit in my own skin, which makes no sense, and when I peek up, this time less obvious, he’s looking at me again.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to ignore how I wish I could sink into the chair.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t…you’re him, right?” He smiles like he’s not randomly mentioning one of the most embarrassing moments of someone’s life to them. “You got Hayesed!” He chuckles, then holds his hand up like I would want to high-five him.
My blood runs cold, my whole body going stiff. No one is paying attention to us, but I feel like they are, like everyone is watching.
When I don’t lift my hand, he lowers his slowly. “Sorry.” He sinks back into his chair, and as pissed as I am at this random stranger, I’m pissed at myself too for not saying anything. For not telling him he’s a dick, and again I feel the fire in my belly that I had last night—not wanting to be this guy. Wanting to step out of my comfort zone and prove to myself that I’m not who Malcolm thought I was.
CHAPTER THREE
Rylan
I can’t sleep, and considering we have a game tomorrow, that’s not good. We got to Seattle late this afternoon, went over film and had a healthy dinner, followed by—and this is a direct quote from Coach—“Keep your ass in the hotel. No going out to get laid.” Which really fucking sucks because getting laid would help me relax. Mads is snoring in the bed beside mine. He’d meditated and passed the fuck out, but I’m tossing and turning, with energy to burn and no real way to burn it.
I could rub one out. Mads sleeps like the dead, plus it’s not like we don’t know the other jerks off. But I’m not really in the mood for just a little self-love, so I slip out of bed, tug some joggers on, grab my shoes and socks, and sneak out. It’s eleven, so maybe the gym at the Rockwell is empty. I can walk or do a light jog on the treadmill to tire myself out.
I head to the elevator and hit the button for the eighth floor. We have a contract with the Rockwell hotels, and if we’re playing in a city where they have one, that’s where we stay.
Of course, when I arrive, the first thing I notice is a sign on the door that says the gym is closed for maintenance.
I know they have a bar on the roof. It’s risky because who the fuck knows if it’s busy or not, but I can take a peek…drink some water, and then maybe my brain will shut down enough that I can get some rest for the game tomorrow.
I go that direction despite the voice in my head telling me that if Coach or Volkov, our team captain, find out, they’ll kick my ass. But I must admit that the rush of that possibility is exciting. Playing by the rules is boring.
I take the elevator to the roof, and it feels like I’m climbing Mount Everest, it takes so long, but finally it dings and the doors open to a familiar rooftop bar and restaurant. It’s partly covered, with a patio at the end with panoramic views of the city.
And it’s empty.
Well, mostly empty. A nerdy guy with short, neat, brown hair is standing behind the bar. He looks around my age, shorter than my six feet three, and not as broad or muscular. I wouldn’t put him in the twink category—he’s maybe five eleven, with your typical, everyday build, and wearing jeans and a striped shirt with a suit jacket over it.
He looks up at me with a scowl that is surprisingly cute, and though it’s clear he’s not excited about having a customer, I head over.
“I promise, I won’t be much trouble,” I tell him.
“We close at midnight.”
“That’s fine. I just want a water.”
He fills a small glass with ice water, then hands it over and begins wiping down the counter with a cloth.
Okay…so obviously he doesn’t want to chat, but he’s interesting for some reason, and I’m a chatty motherfucker, so I ask, “Been a bartender here long?”
“I’m not a bartender.”
I cock a brow at him over the rim of the glass and take a drink, looking for any sign that he recognizes me. “Really? Did you rob the place? Knocked out the bartender and I caught you mid-act? But, then, I guess I don’t get why you didn’t pretend to be the one working. I never would have known. Now that I’ve figured out your story, I must save the day, so…should I call the police or just capture you myself?”