Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
So hot, I know.
Drool. Tears.
Blinking against the bright ray of blue light from my cell, I crack an eyelid to peer at the messages, one at the very top from an unknown number catching my eye. Not only have they texted me a few times, they’ve also called, one in a long list of many concerned—I’m assuming—friends.
Not a word from Noah.
I blink back more tears, sniffing, inhaling a cleansing breath like my friend Jennifer would tell me to do. She’s the friend who’s always trying to get me to meditate, so I’ll relax a bit and chill out.
It comes in handy now as I go through and skim messages, keep some, delete and block others.
Unknown: Miranda, it’s Buzz. Give me a buzz when you get the chance.
Oh, he’s a funny guy alright with the play on words, even knowing I’m probably a ball of nerves at the moment. But this is Noah’s best friend, so maybe he’ll know where Noah is? Or why he hasn’t called? Or if something has happened to him?
Should I call him or text him back?
Call or text, call or—
The phone starts ringing, and speak of the devil, it’s Buzz Wallace lighting up my phone with his fourth call in a single day. How he got my number is a mystery, but I have others I want to solve, so I hit accept.
“Hey.” That’s the best I can muster up as a greeting considering how shitty I feel, how hard my head is pounding, how heavy my heart feels.
“Miranda, it’s Trace Wallace.”
“Who?”
“Buzz—Noah’s friend that you hate.”
Trace? His name is Trace? That’s a new one—a first name I’ve never heard before, especially for a man. Not that I think it’s feminine, but it’s not common.
I like it.
“Hi.” I’m not in the mood for small talk. “What’s going on, Buzz? Where is Noah?”
“Listen, I’m not going to lie to you—he’s not in a good place.”
What does that mean?
“Noah is…” He clears his throat and I sense his discomfort. “He’s sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
“Yeah, like—some people are built for the limelight and he isn’t one of them. When shit like this happens to someone like me, I let it roll off my back, ’cause fuck everyone, right? Excuse the language.”
If I wasn’t in such a mood, I might laugh at him for apologizing.
“But he’s not me and he can’t just shrug it off. That’s not how he’s wired. Harding is in it for the game, not the fame—being in the paper is the last thing he wants and this bullshit? He’s going to run from it, not toward it.”
“But why is he running from me? I didn’t do anything!” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, the sound a bit desperate. “I just want to talk to him. I’m freaking out, Buzz. Trace.” Whatever his damn name is.
“He’s running because he likes you and he’s running before you run from him. Does that make sense?”
Not really. “Why would I run from him?”
“He might be a professional athlete, but his self-esteem is shit.”
I have about a million follow-up questions, but Trace isn’t the one I should be asking—I should be talking to Noah, only he refuses to take my calls.
“My hands are tied here, Buzz.” It feels so strange calling him that. Reminds me of Buzz Lightyear to the rescue and now I’m thinking of animated movies and going to infinity and beyond.
“They’re not. Relax, we’ll figure it out—though you’ll have to ease into it with this one. Like I said, he’s sensitive.”
Of all the people who might comfort me and give me relationship advice, I never in a zillion years would have thought it would be this guy. Unreal.
“What the heck do I do? He won’t answer my calls or talk to me. I can’t even get him to reply to a text. He probably blocked me.”
“Yeah, he’s being a bitch about this.” Buzz makes a hmm noise on the other end of the line. “I think you’re going to have to ambush him. He needs to see you, but he’s never going to call you.”
Ambush? Since when do guys like an ambush? Um, since NEVER.
“I’m not doing that!” But also, “What do you mean? Explain.”
I walk to the window, feeling emptier inside than the office I’m standing in, looking down at the road, not a single car coming or going at this hour of the night.
My stomach growls.
“Hear me out before you shoot it down.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“We have practice tomorrow—you know where the stadium is?”
“Uh, doesn’t everyone?”
“There’s a side entrance we go in and I think you should be waiting there when we’re done so you can talk to him.”
No.
No, no, hell to the no. “I am not doing that! It’s creepy!” I am not a fangirl, lot-lizard groupie who stalks around the stadium!
“Listen, I know, but it’s the only way you’re going to get to talk to him, unless you plan on waiting for him to come to his senses, which will be never.”