Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
I held his gaze like a champ, cautioning myself to relax. My friends were all smart men, but George was wily too. It was as if his occasional cape-wearing tendencies had given him preternatural sensitivity. His suspicious once-over made me nervous. He probably thought I was up to some science-y mischief. Or that I too had a secret lover.
But Blake wasn’t my lover. He was a friend-slash-acquaintance and my temporary pupil of queer arts. And though I hadn’t done anything wrong per se, there were a few things I hadn’t done right lately…like tell my friends about my newest friend.
I trusted George with my life, and I definitely intended to confess my sins and transgressions…but not now. It was already nine a.m., and I’d hoped to be an hour early to give myself copious time to study my notes. I’d pored over lacrosse Google entries for days, but my brain had an internal blocking mechanism that made it difficult to hold on to details that came along with words like goals, nets, and balls. I simply didn’t absorb sports information well.
George would understand for sure, and he would probably have some good advice. But he obviously had other things on his mind, I mused, noting that his basic jeans and Science Matters tee were extra wrinkled, and his dark hair was mussed beyond the usual case of morning bedhead. Unless I was mistaken, he had a hickey on his neck too.
“Is that a vampire bite?” I pointed at the reddish mark, hoping for a quick subject change.
He set the mug on the counter and winced. “Really? Ugh.”
“Yes. You can probably cover it with makeup. Holden might have some,” I suggested, hiking my computer bag over my shoulder before tapping my watch. “Well, look at the time. I’d better—”
“What team?”
“Team?”
“You were talking to yourself about team colors…remember?” he prodded.
“Uh…” My mind went blank. I couldn’t come up with a team name…from any sport anywhere in the world. So, I told the truth. “Westgate.”
George knit his brow in confusion. “The prep school?”
“Yes. I was just…curious.”
“Hmm. Their colors are black and gold, I think.”
“How do you know?”
“My old high school is two blocks away from Westgate, but a million miles apart in every other way. The kids wear uniforms, complete with fancy-looking cardigans and saddle shoes. I wouldn’t have lasted a day,” he snorted, reaching for his mug again.
“Black and gold. That’s…” I pursed my lips in distaste. “Why?”
George cocked his head and gave me a lopsided smile. “Does it matter?”
“No, no. I was just wondering. But I also don’t approve. Black isn’t cheery at all,” I mumbled, moving to the doorway. I paused when he called my name.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Oh, sure. Yes. I’m just…” I motioned vaguely toward the adjoining room. “I’m going to write a strongly worded letter and uh—good-bye.”
I hurried to the entry, grabbed the first two articles of black-and-gold clothing I spotted from the closet, and made a beeline for the door.
The pageantry of sporting events made sense to me. I appreciated symmetry and symbolism. There was something almost majestic about players lined up evenly on a field, across from their opponents, wearing helmets and carrying big sticks with tiny nets attached like knights wielding sabers. It was the messy part in between that lost me. So much running, yelling, and passing of a tiny ball I could barely keep track of from the sidelines.
I tried, though. And my notes paid off…sort of.
Before I arrived at Westgate’s field, I’d learned there was ample parking and plenty of seating. I also knew that the cloud cover was expected to burn off and give way to a beautiful seventy-five-degree day. Perfect spring weather.
Unless you were wearing a black down jacket and a gold beret, sitting on the top row in the bleachers facing the sun.
I had no idea who either of these articles of clothing belonged to. The coat was ginormous on me, so I had a feeling it was George’s. But the beret was a mystery. Who the heck owned a gold beret, of all things?
I knew I stood out like a sore thumb, but everyone in this section was wearing black and I’d read somewhere that it was disrespectful not to comply with sporty dress codes. Or worse, to wear the opponents’ colors. But I was too stressed out about following the game to worry about the beads of sweat dripping from my forehead.
Okay, fine. I gave up ten minutes into the game. I had no clue what was happening on the field, and the only reason I was here at all was Blake. So I watched him instead.
He was so…handsome. And imposing.
Blake exuded patience with a dash of cunning as he strode the sideline decisively with a clipboard in hand. His black baseball cap and sunglasses shielded his eyes and though his expression was mostly neutral, his body language was cool, calm, and commanding. I tried not to ogle his ass in his athletic shorts or stare at his broad shoulders and muscular biceps like a creeper. But my gaze was drawn to the sexy hint of ink under his sleeve…among other things.