Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
His short, blond hair was a controlled mess, spiky in places. My hands shook slightly as I wondered what it would be like to run my fingertips through that hair.
I was close enough to see the light, sandy brown stubble on his face. I think I may have even smelled him—I got a whiff of a faint, woodsy scent—but I can’t be sure it wasn’t one of the other two guys he was standing with.
Whether or not it was his smell I basked in, tonight I got closer to Victor Allen Lane than I ever dreamed I would. And he didn’t even look at me.
It took me a good five minutes to work up the courage to approach him and Easy. The first time I tried, my tray was emptied of drinks before I reached them. So I refilled, gave myself another pep talk, and went directly over to them.
When Victor saw the drinks and said, “Ah, perfect,” I nearly dropped my tray as I imagined he was talking about me. I know his “thanks” was directed my way, but he would’ve said that to any server.
He didn’t even look at me. I thought I didn’t want him to, because I was a ketchup-ey, musard-ey, Icee-ish mess. But it felt worse to be invisible.
What was I expecting? I’m the help. That event was for rich, famous people who donate to the Blaze Foundation so they can meet Blaze players. My only role was to carry around a tray of drinks and not drop it.
Victor has been the object of my affection since he was traded to the Blaze four years ago. I started reading up on our team’s new forward then, and the more I read, the more I liked him.
He’s Canadian. An only child. Age twenty-eight. A survivor of pediatric cancer. A huge baseball fan. He eats Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups before every home game. When he lost his dog Spike three years ago, he said in an interview that he cried every day for two weeks.
I may not know Victor, but I know a lot about him. He knows nothing about me, though, and he never will.
I’m twenty-three years old. Too old to have a crush on someone who couldn’t be further out of my league. I should probably be sensible and accept a date with Manny, the janitor at the Carson Center who told Ari he likes me.
Manny has yellow teeth, and he picks his nose. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to accept that this is my league.
“BOOM!”
There’s whooping and cheering in the living room. I lean back to get a look at the TV screen and see that the Sox just got a two-run homer.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” my dad yells, pumping his fist. “Does Clemson come through every time or what?”
“Every fuckin’ time!” Don says gleefully. “His wife better be on her knees when he gets home tonight. My man deserves a steak and blowjob.”
I grab another slice of pizza and a bottle of water, then head upstairs for a shower. I could easily go to sleep right after, but there’s no way these guys will be quiet enough for that until the game is over.
I’ll just read in bed until then. I’m in the middle of a book about a female assassin who’s being wooed by a warrior king.
It’s fantasy, but it sure beats my reality—a nose-picking janitor.
Chapter Four
Victor
“What’s going on with you, Victor?”
Fuck. You know you’re on Coach Johnson’s shit list when he calls you by your first name. He always calls players by our last names, and if he’s yelling at you, you’re good. It’s when he stops yelling and turns serious that you’re in trouble.
Sitting in a chair in his office, I shake my head and look at him blankly. “I don’t know.”
It’s kind of true. I know what’s been distracting me lately, but I can’t tell my head coach—or anyone—about that. That’s not what he’s asking me, though. He wants to know why one of his first line wingers is playing like a guy any college coach would cut. And I have no explanation for that.
“You still hung up on that actress?”
“No.”
He cocks his brows, skeptical of my answer.
“You had photographers following you everywhere when you were with her, and even more of ‘em after those pictures of her with that other guy came out. You were the most famous player on our team—hell, on any team—for a while there. Don’t you miss that?”
I have to laugh at his theory. “Hell no. I hated having those fucking photographers on my ass all the time. I was into Kristen, and it would’ve been nice of her to just break it off with me before she started fucking someone else, but it went down a different way.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. “Think you need a break?”