Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“I have my reasons, but she will take some persuading.”
“So, how do you see this going down? I go to her and just say, yo, let’s move in together?”
I didn’t want to lose my inheritance because my dick had the social life of the entire Kardashian clan. Living with a geek and six months of celibacy weren’t going to kill me.
Probably.
Only time would tell, honestly.
“Do whatever you see fit to make sure Sailor says yes.” Da shrugged. “I’ll throw you a hook, but you’ll be doing the fishing. Not Syllie—who, by the way, I’ve ordered never to help you again. No more screwing around. If you want something, you need to chase it. It’s your job to make Sailor cooperate. You’re on your own now, Hunter. If you fail to show me you’re the man I need you to be in the next six months, you’re out. And Sailor is just the type of person to keep you in check.”
Dear God,
I know I talk to you periodically, mainly asking for favors, but I swear this is the last time.
…
Fine. It’s probably not the last time, but hear me out anyway, okay?
Please give me a signal that my Olympic dream is not a bust.
Make it rain.
Have a pigeon poop on me.
Anything.
It’s the only thing I care about. The only thing I truly want.
Yours,
—Sailor Brennan (P.S. I totally gave up chocolate and salty snacks for Lent, so if you look me up and see a list of my family’s sins, particularly my dad’s and brother’s, just remember I’m cool, all right? P.P.S. I pray for them, too.)
I drew an imaginary line between myself and the target, squinting under the pounding sun, sweat casing my forehead. Using three fingers to hold my arrow and string, I raised the bow toward the target, my inner elbow parallel to the ground. I could practically feel my pupils dilating as I focused, a tingle of excitement shooting up my spine. I released the arrow, watching as it spun in the air, missing the bull’s-eye by mere millimeters.
I lowered my bow, wiping my brow.
“Sailor,” my trainer, Junsu, clipped in a cutting tone. He approached from the shaded visiting area of the archery range, his hands clasped behind his back. “You have a visitor.”
I removed my bracer and leather tab, turning around and dumping them into the open duffel bag behind me.
“Visitor?” I grabbed a bottle of water from the plastic chair, squeezing its contents into my mouth. “Who would visit me?”
The question was not meant to sound as pathetic as it came out. Lots of people could visit me. My parents, for instance. Mom often dropped food off for me at reception, knowing I always forget to feed myself. I also had friends—Persephone (Persy) and Emmabelle (Belle) Penrose, namely. They both spent a good amount of time trying to drag me to social events I didn’t want to attend. But everybody knew I wasn’t big on visitors while I was training. Never mind the fact that I was always training.
“A boy.” Junsu’s mouth twisted around the last word. His Korean accent, touched with an unexplained British twang, rang with accusation. “A tall, blond boy.”
Junsu was short and sinewy and didn’t look a day over thirty, though considering his prime years in the Olympics were thirty years ago, he was no doubt pushing fifty. His hair was raven black, his tan skin wrinkle-free. He wore tight, simple clothes of expensive fabrics. They always looked neatly ironed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shook my head, my Merida DunBroch-style mane whooshing around my face.
I scooped up my duffel and looped my bow over my shoulder as I started walking from the outdoor range back to the archery club. Junsu must’ve misheard. That guy was probably looking for someone else.
“Can I come half an hour early tomorrow, so you can help me tune my bow? I think I need a new string.”
Junsu gave me a slight nod, his face still troubled. “The boy,” he pressed, stroking his chin, “is he—how you say?—your boy-friend?”
He put a hyphen between the words boy and friend, knowing dang well what the answer was. I’d postponed college (and life in general) to be laser-focused on archery. More specifically: the Olympics that would take place a year from now. Boys were strictly off the menu this year. A stab at the Olympics was a once-or twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
College could wait. I could enroll next year, after I won my gold medal.
Boys? They were so off my radar, I wasn’t even sure I possessed said radar.
I’d had the pleasure of growing up next to two men, two strong men who taught me everything there is to know about the gender: they were wild, violent, and real time-suckers. I had no place for them.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Junsu.” I blew out air as we waltzed through the narrow hallway of the archery club. It was filled with pictures of past and current archers who’d brought pride and medals to this club. I inhaled the addictive scent of sweat, leather equipment, and faint powder. “But whoever it is, he is no one to me.” I stopped, scratching above my eyebrow as I tried to make sense of this. “Maybe it’s Dorian Sanchez. He went to school with me and has been begging me to talk to my mom about giving him a job.”