Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Sounds like she wasn’t your favorite girlfriend.”
He bit his bottom lip, looking out. “Definitely not. Can’t say I’ve been as lucky in love as I have been with football.”
I saw it, shining right in front of me: an opportunity to see the real Storm.
To maybe—just maybe—break through his bad boy shell and find a way toward befriending him.
“Really?” I asked. “What’s the story with your love life?”
I wasn’t afraid to ask personal questions to new people. In fact, it was how I’d made most of my friends, and formed long-lasting relationships. Caring about people mattered, and maybe I just needed to find a way to get closer to Storm.
Plus, I actually was curious.
What made Storm Rosling tick?
He waved a hand. “We don’t have to talk about my dating life. I just haven’t found The One, yet. That’s all.”
Maybe I wasn’t going to get the deep conversation I’d hoped for.
“Fall can make me wish I had someone,” I said, because I also wasn’t afraid to get a little personal myself. “But the leaves still look just as pretty when I go on my walks alone, so, oh well. There’s nothing better than a crisp autumn walk.”
Storm just shrugged. “The whole fall vibes obsession isn’t my thing. I prefer heat. Fall has too much… change.”
Oof. That one hit me particularly hard, right in the heart.
So much had changed in my life in the past few years, and I knew firsthand how hard it could be.
“You’re right. We can’t escape change,” I said gently. “That’s what life is, after all.”
The breeze blew through the leaves again as if on cue.
It was beautiful, and now a bit melancholy. I missed my dad like hell. And I hoped to God that the football player standing across from me wouldn’t ruin the one thing I was holding out hope to change for the better, this fall.
“Fine, Fancy Pants,” Storm said. “I can’t argue with that.”
Finally, I sensed that something I said had reached him, just a little bit.
If my usual friendliness wasn’t going to work, I wanted to at least be real with him. Or to tease him, to mess with him a little like he had done to me. He’d been pushing my buttons all day, so was it so wrong that I wanted to push him back?
I breathed in deep, needing to shake off the lull in our conversation. I started laying the fall vibes on thick.
“Mmm. Don’t you just feel that, in the air already?” I asked. “Fall’s already coming. I’m going to be baking pumpkin pies, and the scent will carry over right toward your house. Sometimes the first snowfall even hits Colorado in late September. Hope you’re ready.”
His gaze landed on me again. He slowly looked me up and down, and my cock responded again from having him look me over.
He was impenetrable, but he was about as sexy as a man could be.
“You’re more fun when you’re trying to fuck with me,” he said in a low voice. “Still isn’t going to work, because you’re not going to get to me. But it’s cute that you tried.”
I swallowed. “Not trying to get to you,” I lied.
“Right,” he said, clearly seeing right through me. “Oreo, come on. Let’s get back. Got to call up the Fixer Brothers and tell them all about how excited I am to work with them.” He gave me a look as he scooped up Oreo. “Have a good night, Emmett. Got an away game this weekend, but I’ll see you at the next meeting with Shawn and Nathan.”
I said nothing as he walked off. Just past my gate, I watched as he hoisted Oreo up into the air in his arms, like Simba at the beginning of The Lion King. Then he brought her back down, covered her in little kisses, and headed back home.
4
STORM
Eyes on the ball.
My heart pounded in my chest like a war drum as Andy Watkins got right up in my face, sticking to me like glue. Sweat dripped down every inch of me, and every muscle in my body burned. The good kind of burn.
We were tied 14-14 with Miami.
Past my helmet I saw Watkins’ fierce gaze. He was Miami’s best cornerback, and he was trying to get to me. He’d been trying to fuck with my mental for the whole game. We were nearing the end of the fourth quarter, and the game had been tighter than a fucking vise the whole time.
“Fight me after this, Rosling?” Watkins grunted at me. I waited patiently for the hike.
“Gonna eat shrimp cocktail and fucking celebrate after this, when we win the game,” I muttered back.
I knew I shouldn’t be shit-talking on the field. He shouldn’t have been either. It was only a distraction. Miami had no timeouts left, and this could be a done deal if I played it right.