Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“So he’s not scared to say . . . ‘Gavin, you’re being a dickhead.’”
“Basically. He talks almost as much trash as I do, which is probably why we managed to get along. Also, he keeps trying to make me look good to Mel. Gave me credit for all this shit that he came up with. I don’t get it, since I was a total douchebag to him, but I appreciate it. He’s a good dude.”
“Huh.” Marcus slowly nodded, analyzing me with his big dark eyes. “Aiight, I’ll talk to Simeon.”
“About what?”
“Him keeping his greedy hands off your boy.” Marcus winked. “But if you’re keeping on with this whole I’m-trying-to-hold-on-to-my-employee bullshit, I’d recommend getting laid. From where I’m sitting, you just look like a jealous, horny bastard.”
“Done.”
Marcus rolled off the sofa and sprang to his feet. He arched his back with a jaw-cracking yawn. “You mind if I catch some sleep, dude? I’ve been having nightmares every night for the past few days.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
“Eh. Stress shit. Getting injured before the season even starts. Moe getting hurt messed me up, man.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yeah.” Marcus sobered. “His agent isn’t feeling too good about his contract since this is his last year, and he’s had four fucking surgeries during the life of it. Remember what I said earlier? About them saying he was injury-prone? I wasn’t making it up. His career may be over, man. Or maybe they’ll trade him to some douchebag team like the Predators.”
The Predators were infamous dickholes. It seemed to be a requirement for signing with them. Even their cheerleaders were mean as fuck. The Slytherin of the NFL. The only time I could play a game without everyone mentioning my shitty reputation was if we were playing the Predators. They, as a whole, had a shittier reputation than me.
“You won’t get hurt.”
Marcus arched a brow. “You a prophet now?”
“Yeah. And I prophesize your ass winning the Super Bowl this year.”
“Without you and Moe? Nope.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“For real, man. I love Phil, but he’s no Brawley. He’s small and lean enough to run circles around D-men after a reception, but he has none of your force or bulk. They’re changing everything to account for you and Moe not being there. Fucking sucks.”
It did suck. Even more so because I was now facing the reality that my team was short not one but two starters. If I’d controlled myself better, I’d be there to support them. All of this stress and anxiety about how the season would roll out wouldn’t be on their shoulders, although in my opinion Moe was more of an asset to the team. He was one of the best wide receivers in the league. Even so, I wanted to be there to step up. But I was stuck. Because of my need to escalate shit five times past where it could have ended.
“All right, bud. I’m gonna go talk to Simeon, and you figure out how to get laid.”
I nodded, watching him go, and actually listened to the tip. Between Simeon and Noah, the shit about Moe, and now the news that my replacement wasn’t rising to the occasion of starting for the Barons? I needed an outlet. It was either time to get in a monstrous fistfight or take out the brimming frustration on someone’s ass.
I went for the latter.
As a matter of luck, I’d gotten the number of the cute little fitness model who’d sucked my dick at my “house arrest party.” Max with the pretty smile and talented mouth. I was willing to bet he was also a talented bottom.
My text message consisted of a single question: Busy this weekend?
His reply was nearly instant.
Max: Sorta. How are you?
Gavin: Horny. wanna come thru on Sat or Sunday? I got your cab.
Max: I’m free Sunday night. But I thought you didn’t do two-night stands?
It was tempting to tell him to forget it. I did not fuck with leading questions or implications that someone was more special to me than I’d ever stated just because they were trying to read into my actions. That was how drama happened. And having a GPS around my ankle for six months was as much drama as I needed.
Hesitating on a response, I left the game room to go back downstairs. Simeon had settled in the living room and was watching the first Predators pre-season game on the big screen. Noah was nowhere in sight.
“Did he leave? It’s only four.”
“Nah,” Simeon said, scowling at the screen when the Predators scored a touchdown. “He went to refill your prescription before going back to Queens. You’re like an elderly person, and he’s your sexy home health aide.”
“Shut up. It’s shit my therapist is trying to make me take.”
Simeon looked at me sideways. “Is it to calm your ragey-when-anxious ass down?”