Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I select the answer from a series of three possible choices. “No,” I scream. “Stupid fucking troll.”
The gray-bearded mage grows larger, towering over my player. “You are unworthy,” he tells me while laughing, taunting me with his evil cackle. Then the images on the screen pixelate until they turn into melted lava. The screen flashes Game Over. I stare at it, unblinking.
I lost. Again. Dammit.
Angry, I throw the controller across my bedroom. It hits the door and lands on the carpet next to an open Bauer hockey bag, which reminds me I have shit to do for tomorrow. The game starts at seven. Less than twenty-four hours from now.
Pushing myself up from the floor, I let out an aggravated groan. I spent two hours working on that level, all for nothing. Lifting my phone from the bed, I consider calling Uncle Jameson to yell at him for making a game that’s impossible to beat. Instead, I open my messages.
Preston: You evil troll, give me the answer to level 26.
Jameson: Not a chance, buddy.
Preston: I hate you right now.
Jameson: :(
Clutching my phone, I consider chucking it across the room. Mage Wars gets me so damn mad. But I’m addicted to it. Scrolling through my messages, I ignore those from girls I’ve hooked up with in the past. I need to focus for tomorrow.
I stop when I see Bex Bryant’s name. For a second, I forget all about Mage Wars. Bex’s ass in those tight shorts come to mind. And now, I’m even more frustrated.
Should I text her? I said I would.
But that was before her dad lectured me. He was right. I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. There’s no point forming attachments to girls when I might be living across the country next year. One-night stands are more my speed. No commitment. No feelings. Nothing to hold me back from my dreams.
I hover my finger over her name, torn by my predicament. Coach Bryant knows I’m taking Bex with me to meet my mom this weekend. It’s not like we are hiding it from him.
I open a new message about to type what I normally would to a girl I like. But Bex isn’t a random chick. So, what do I say?
I begin typing, Hey, girl, what’s up? And then realize I sound like an asshole and erase it. Definitely not smooth. What’s wrong with me?
With other girls, I would tell them to come over and be done with it. Easy. It works every time. I can’t do that with Bex. She would never respond to my typical brand of assholery.
So, I think long and hard about everything I know about basketball. My mom is a fanatic. Her prized possession is a ball signed by Michael Jordan. She shows it off where everyone can see it—front and center on a table in our living room.
Nervous and overthinking everything, I tap the keys, hoping Bex doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
Preston: There’s something wrong with your jersey.
A few seconds later, a chat bubble appears.
Bex: Who is this?
I sigh, now realizing my attempt at sports humor was stupid. But I keep going.
Preston: Parker
Bex: Oh, hey. What’s wrong with my jersey?
Preston: It’s not on my floor.
Bex: OMG. You’re an idiot. Remind me again why I gave you my number?
Preston: Because I’m taking you to meet my mom.
Preston: I can’t believe I just typed that. You should feel special.
Bex: And why is that, Mr. MVP?
Preston: I’ve never introduced my mom to any of the girls I know.
Bex: I was already nervous. Now, I’m even more freaked out.
Preston: Don’t sweat it.
Bex: I’ll try.
A few minutes pass where I attempt to come up with something clever. Instead, I try being myself. With Bex, I can relax, lower my guard. There’s something about her that sort of settles me despite how anxious I am about making the wrong move.
Bex: Did you want something other than to tell me you’d like to see me naked?
Preston: I never said I want to see you naked.
But I do.
Bex: Your message implied it. Was there a point to texting me this late at night?
Preston: Late at night? It’s ten o’clock. What are you, 90? Sorry, Grams.
Bex: I’m tired from practice and school. You should be in bed too. Your big game is tomorrow. Good luck, by the way.
Preston: I’d love to get in bed with you.
Bex: Parker, Parker… Peter Parker. You’re such a bad boy. Do you ever think with the right head?
I glance down at my growing erection and shake my head. Nope. Only the one that counts. I’m rock-hard from talking to her. All I can think about is being balls-deep in Bex.
Preston: I never think straight when it comes to you.
Bex: My dad has rules. We’ve already broken one of them. On Saturday, we will technically break another one.