Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
This is what I get for having a weak moment.
And honestly, I knew better.
Chapter 12
Talon
“He’s so upset right now. You have no idea,” my mother says from the other side of the phone. “The fact that he had to find out through the grapevine and not from his own son?”
Stepson …
I hoist my bag over my shoulder. I’m not going to apologize. I was literally presented with the offer one hour ago, called my agent, and booked it to class.
“Nothing’s finalized yet,” I say. “I didn’t want to make any announcements until it was official.”
“That’s not the point,” she scoffs in true Camilla Masterson fashion. It’s not easy being half martyr, half victim, and full-blooded drama queen. “The point is Mark should have been the first person you called, not Ira.”
She’s seriously mad at me for calling my agent before calling my stepdad?
I can’t with her.
Not today.
“I think you should plan on coming home tonight,” she says. “I’ll make dinner reservations at Miato’s to celebrate and you can apologize to your father then. After all, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.”
Well aware …
We all know Mark’s dreams of pro football stardom went up in smoke when he tore his ACL playing in college. Never quite made a full recovery, never got over it, so he had to live vicariously through me.
At the end of the day, my scholarship—and this contract—are his.
I’m nothing more than a football-throwing machine, an avatar for his overinflated ego.
People joke about Tiger Woods and how his father aggressively pushed him from a young age and shaped him into the golf club wielding champion he is today.
Mark Masterson would make Earl Woods look like Mary fucking Poppins.
“I can’t do tonight, Mom,” I lie. “I need more notice than that.”
“Fine,” she says. “This Friday. I know you don’t have any classes in the afternoon so that should give you plenty of time to make your way down for the night. Why don’t we plan on seven?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I glance up and find a mostly-empty auditorium.
Shit.
Irie’s long gone.
I was hoping to ask her if she could send her notes to me from the first half of class.
“Hey, Mom. I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Okay, but don’t forget to call Mark,” she says. “I mean it. Call him as soon as you can. Explain to him why you didn’t tell him first and then tell him you’re coming home Friday to celebrate.”
“Yep.” I end the call and make my way outside, but not before emailing Irie to ask about the notes—and to secure another study date for Thursday night.
Chapter 13
Irie
He brought a blanket.
And coffee.
I find him in a cozy corner of the greenspace in front of the library Thursday evening, camped out on a black and white buffalo check blanket.
This is supposed to be a study date, but the only thing studious about it is the notebook in his lap and pen behind his ear.
“Irie, hi,” he says when I take a seat across from him. He hands me a white paper cup and a spare sweatshirt. “It’s supposed to get cold.”
“You know we’re only doing this for a half hour, right?” I ask, fighting a half-smirk. I’m charmed. I am. I won’t lie. But it doesn’t excuse the hot-and-coldness this week.
We shared that kiss on Saturday. On Monday he came to class late and barely said two words to me, though he did shoot me an email asking about notes. During Wednesday’s lecture, he was still quiet—though he did walk out with me and remind me of our standing study date.
Maybe this isn’t as fun for him anymore? Maybe since I let him kiss me, the chase is slowing down and it isn’t that exciting? The cheetah has finally caught up to the gazelle and now he’s bored.
“Thanks for this,” I say, sipping my coffee, which I now realize is a mocha cappuccino … which just so happens to be my favorite. I’m not even going to ask how he knew. He’ll probably go on some tangent about the eleventh time he saw me in a coffee shop or something. “You doing okay?”
He peers at me through squinted eyes. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You haven’t been …” I gather a lungful of air. “You haven’t been yourself this week. After the kiss, I thought you’d be …”
He doesn’t say a word, he simply lets me continue on, stumbling over my words and digging myself into a hole that shows I actually kind of maybe give a damn.
“Oh,” he says a second later, eyes lit. “You thought I backed off because we kissed last weekend and I lost interest.”
“Warn a girl before you read her mind, will you?”
“I haven’t told anyone yet,” he begins to say, scooting in closer and narrowing the space between us. “But I was offered a pro contract this week.”