Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
He didn’t love her. He wasn’t going to fall in love with her. And because of these things, he certainly wasn’t going to live with her.
Though, as perplexing as it was that she’d make the request to take their relationship to a different level, because she’d given no sign her feelings ran any deeper than his did, he was avoiding having that uncomfortable conversation.
He was because, at this juncture, it should include him ending their relationship.
If she was at that place and he was not and further knew he never would be, the best thing he could do for her was end it.
He intended to do that.
He just was not looking forward to it.
Though, he should sort himself out, especially considering he’d decided to go to a public court, rather than the one at his club, and he now had an audience. And he was acting less like he was practicing his serve and more like he wanted to murder someone with a tennis ball.
A young, gangly Black kid, maybe ten years old, was watching him.
The kid was so young, he wasn’t even born when Tom was competing.
Still, he didn’t hide he was watching, and Tom took every opportunity he was afforded to turn kids on to physical fitness, especially tennis.
In a second, he’d pull himself together and ask if he was interested in serving a few. And since the kid was carrying a racket, maybe they could do a volley.
With this in mind, he set up the serve and followed through, running forward with the momentum of his swing.
That was when he saw it.
A kitten tripping and rolling over some of his spent tennis balls.
Not a cat.
A kitten, a tiny one, apparently out by itself on a public tennis court.
He stared at it, feeling a prickle at the back of his neck as he watched it move.
He turned his head to the kid and pointed at the animal.
“That kitten yours?”
The kid was studying Tom’s bucket of balls, but when Tom called, he looked to where Tom was pointing.
Back to Tom, “No, sir!”
Tom returned his attention to the cat, which had rolled off a ball onto its side.
Then he approached.
He was close before the kitten saw him, and when it did, it made for its escape.
Tom didn’t stalk or give any indication of menace. He set his racket down, moved slowly, watching the animal’s gait, which was ungainly, stumbling. Likely because it was a very young kitten, but also, Tom suspected, due to something worse.
The animal rounded the fence, and Tom did too.
It made its way over the browned, winter grass toward a line of shrubs.
Tom followed it.
That was when he saw the box pushed under the shrubs.
Which was when he stopped fucking around.
The kitten was in no shape to outrun him, and it didn’t. Tom scooped him up and became instantly alarmed as he felt the weight of the cat, which couldn’t be much more than a pound, and the obvious protrusion of ribs against his palm.
He moved swiftly to the overturned box, crouched and peered inside.
“Shit,” he whispered, turned and shouted to the kid who was still watching him. “Hey! Can you come here?”
The kid started jogging, but Tom returned his attention to the box. Carefully, he reached in and felt around the pile of unmoving fur.
There were three of them, all of them had pulses, all very weak.
And none of them even mewed when they felt his touch.
Even if he found some way to get them water, they were too feeble to drink it.
But they needed fluids immediately.
“Holy crap,” the kid said when he arrived.
“You have a phone, bud?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” the kid answered.
“Great,” Tom said, and held the kitten he had toward the boy. “Hold him a sec. I’ve got to turn this box. Then I want you to look up the nearest twenty-four-hour vet hospital.”
“’Kay.” The kid took the kitten, and immediately muttered, “He’s like holding a feather.”
Frighteningly true.
Carefully, arranging the cats as he moved the box, Tom righted it.
He took the kitten from the kid and placed it with the others, lifting up the box as he came out of his crouch.
“There’s a place on Shea,” the kid said, head tipped down to his phone. “It’s ten minutes from here.”
Tom was striding quickly to where he’d set his stuff, the kid following and giving him details on the hospital.
“What’s your name?” he asked when the kid stopped talking.
“Clay,” he answered.
“Great, Clay. Now, program my number into your phone.”
Tom was at his bag. He put the box down, shrugged on his jacket, nabbed his phone, tossed the bag over his shoulder, grabbed his water bottle, all while Clay programmed his number in as Tom gave it to him.
“Will you do something for me?” he asked, picking up the box and beginning to move.
“You want me to pick up your balls and grab your racket?” Clay offered.