Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
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.
Whatever. We don’t need to be friends. We’re opponents, after all.
2
Snow in August
Jason
A little later, after our separate practices have ended and everyone’s showered, Reese escorts Beck and me to a media briefing room inside our facility. Reese chats about baseball and a new food truck she and her husband are obsessed with. I trade some food recs and weigh in on some pitching changes, and our small talk makes it even more glaringly obvious that Beck barely says a word.
Maybe he’s just a quiet guy. This is my turf, after all. I could try to make him feel more welcome, but we’re at the room a few seconds later.
“The usual crew is here,” Reese says when we reach the doorway.
“I’ll be sure to invite them all to my barbecue later,” I say to her with a wink.
“Have fun, Jaybird,” she says.
I bound up the steps to the podium on the low stage. “Hey, there,” I say with a smile as I reach the mic. I ask Megan from the local radio station how her daughter’s doing, then ask Jon from a popular sports site whether his fantasy baseball team is still killing it.
Once that’s done, Megan stands and sticks out her phone to record. “Opponents have been trying to figure out your weakness for the last few years. Is it . . . kittens?”