Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“I’ve got pretty steady hands,” I say with a grin. If I can carry a ball downfield, I can handle a high-flying kitten.
The T-shirt guy hands me Bandit, who greets me with an upbeat meow.
Aww, hell. My heart squishes, all helpless. Forget gusto. I turn to mush as I scratch the little guy under the chin. “Aww, look at you with your cute little gloves,” I coo.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
The team photographer is already on it. Guess she knows a good moment when she sees it. The little fella asks for more, lifting his furry head higher. Then, dear God, the kitty purrs.
I’m. Dead.
“Oh, I get you, Bandit,” I say to him. “It’s sure nice to get a massage.”
A voice rumbles from near my right shoulder. “It is.”
I don’t recognize the gravelly tone, so I turn to the guy who just materialized by my side.
I catalog him. Brown eyes that are broody and intense. A jaw lined with stubble. Dark hair that’s thick and a little wild. Borderline unkempt. His jersey sports a number nine.
It’s the Mercenaries’ new quarterback.
Beck Cafferty.
Since it’s my job to know the other quarterbacks, their skills, and their weaknesses, I’ve read up on him and watched some game film, but there’s not much to see or know. He has a few less years than my twenty-six. This is his first season starting after he warmed the bench last season as a backup. Cafferty didn’t go to a big football school, and the Mercenaries didn’t draft him till round six.
We’ll see what he’s made of.
“Hey, Cafferty.” I give a chin nod to my opponent and a pleasant enough greeting.
“McKay,” he says, not quite warm, but not cold either. More like . . . he’s figuring out what to say next.
Bandit interrupts with a demanding meow. He no longer wants to hang out in my arms; he clambers onto my shoulder. I reach for the wily cat, tugging him back down. “I guess it’s time for quarterbacks and very busy kittens,” I say lightly, hoping to make the moment easy for both Beck and me. No need for him to feel awkward as the new guy, even though I plan to pummel his team tomorrow.
Beck’s quiet, though, as he watches me maneuver the kitten around. “You’ve got a live wire,” he finally says.
I glance at the fur monster scrambling up my chest. “I think this dude wants to be our new mascot. Pretty sure he’s a hardcore Hawks fan,” I say as Bandit attempts to secure a perch on my shoulder again.
“Maybe he’s part parrot,” Beck says drily.
“You might be right,” I reply.
Reese returns to us with an orange ball of fluff in her arms. “Here’s Creamsicle for you, Beck.”
The other quarterback nods and takes the kitten. “Thanks.”
Reese shifts her attention back to me, snorting with laughter when she sees my predicament. “Do you need a different one?”
No way am I giving up on this creature. That’d be admitting defeat in the face of both a four-pound animal and the guy leading the opposition tomorrow. “Nah, Bandit and I are just working out the terms of our arrangement,” I say, as I adjust the kitten once more.
Reese pats my free arm. “Whatever you say.”
I make another effort to settle the little dude down, scratching his chin again. Bandit purrs a second time. Whew. There we go.
I steal a glance at Beck and Creamsicle. The fluffy orange guy is chilling in Beck’s arms, calm as can be. Damn, someone has cat magic.
The photographer clears her throat. “Can we get you two shoulder to shoulder?” she asks.
I hardly want to move now that Bandit’s settled down, but I do it anyway, shuffling an inch to be a good sport. Beck moves a drop closer but then stops, standing his ground.
“A little closer,” the photographer says.
I shift again. Beck moves maybe a millimeter. I sense the tension in Beck as if he’s holding himself back. I’m unsure why, and I don’t want to read into his restraint. I just stay where I am, cradling a squirmy cat and smiling for the camera.
The shutterbug doesn’t ask us to slide any nearer to each other. Good. Beck’s giving off some serious don’t stand so close to me vibes.
Reese says thanks when we’re done, then reminds us that we have media questions after practice.
“I’ll be there in the briefing room, ready for anything,” I say.
“You always are,” Reese adds with a smile, then looks at the other quarterback with a more serious expression. “Beck, you’re all good to join us?”
Beck’s eyes flicker, maybe with annoyance or possibly frustration. He doesn’t say anything that helps me figure out which one—just gives a quick nod. Then he walks off to join his team.
What’s his deal? He’s drily sarcastic one minute, then coldly uncomfortable the next.
I don’t need to be pals with every other quarterback I play against, but it’s a small club. There are only thirty-two starters in the league, and there’s no point in being this standoffish.