Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Why’s that?”
“As odd as it may sound, I love feeling the thunder under my feet. Just wait.”
The whistle blows again, and the same thing happens with the quarterback yelling, and then I get it. The players running together feel like thunder, and the crunch of them hitting each other reverberates and causes me to shiver.
“Oh, I get it now.”
“Right? Plus, they’re nice to look at.”
“Who?”
“The men,” he says with a shrug. Valentine was right. I don’t know if I would ever admit my attraction to someone I just met, but he doesn’t seem to care. Myles leans to the side and I do the same.
“Oh, I see,” I say, agreeing with him. “Well, damn.”
“Yeah, I enjoy my job.” Myles chuckles.
Another much longer whistle sound blows and the guys take their helmets off. Some walk off the field, gather in a circle, walk toward the sideline, while one runs to their coach. They talk for a moment and then he makes his way toward us. Our eyes lock instantly. He smiles a bashful, crooked smile, and my knees go weak. I swallow hard as he approaches.
“Kelsey, this is Alex Moore. He’s our center.”
I don’t have a clue what that means. I’m about to ask when his meaty hand engulfs mine. “Hello, Ms. Sloane. I’m Alex and I’m going to give you the ins and outs of football. But first, I need to shower. Myles will keep you company and bring you to the locker room in thirty minutes.” Alex winks and then heads toward the crowd moving toward the building. He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, for which I’m thankful. I’m not sure I could muster any words over the lump I feel in my throat.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Bud.” Myles laughs and I know instantly he saw my reaction to the player. I can’t help it. I am human after all.
TWO
ALEX
Coach Walter and his handy assistant, Myles, come into the weight room. None of us stop what we’re doing, nor does anyone turn down the music. We keep lifting, jumping rope, and doing whatever the hell Jessie McAvoy, our right tackle, is doing.
Coach stands in the middle of the room, with his hands on his hips. He rarely says anything to us about our regimen, leaving that up to the professional trainers on staff, but sometimes he comes in and teases us about being weak or again, questioning Jessie and his obscure way of training. Today though, there’s something on Coach’s mind.
Myles stands next to him, decked out in Pioneer gear, and looking like he’s up to no good. Everyone loves Myles. He’s a hoot to hang out with and often asks one of us to accompany him to the bar to meet other men. There isn’t a guy on the team who doesn’t jump at the opportunity to be his wingman. We know he’s using us to get attention, but we don’t care. Honestly, sometimes it’s fun to go out and just hang.
That’s been my life lately. “Hanging” or whatever that’s supposed to mean. It has been since Maggie left for England and we broke up because of my unwillingness to leave my career for hers. The ask was too much, in my opinion. It’s not like I’m some businessman grinding away with the nine-to-five. But she didn’t see it that way.
Getting over her has been hard. Made more difficult by the text messages we continue to send back and forth, and the FaceTime chats we have late at night, or in her case, early in the morning. Maggie initiates them. When she told me she needed space—I gave it to her. Yet, she can’t seem to let go. I don’t know why I engage, and I should probably stop.
After what feels like ten minutes of him standing there, Coach finally yells for someone to shut the music off and gather around. Only, for those with headphones on, they’re still pumping iron and all we hear is the clank of metal hitting metal and grunting.
I’ll be honest, the grunting is a bit funny and uncomfortable to listen to.
“What’s up, Coach?” Noah Westbury, our quarterback asks. I love Noah. He’s one of my best friends. I chill a lot at his place, more so lately after my break-up. His wife, Peyton, works for the club and is a hard ass. She comes off as this tiny meek person, who barely makes a squeak, but she knows more about football than most of us and isn’t afraid to tell us what kind of fuck ups we are on the field by pointing out all of your mistakes and showing you the error of your ways, in her equally soft voice. I’ve never feared anyone like I fear Peyton Westbury.
Myles clears his throat. “We have someone coming in to observe practice. She,”—Myles pauses and waits for the single men to get over their excitement—“needs the ins and outs of football. Her name is Kelsey, she’s a book editor and doesn’t know anything about the sport. One of you will meet with her after practice, talk to her, answer her questions, and most importantly, be on your best behavior.”