Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
The ref upholds the call after the challenge, and I glare at the TV.
We were almost at first down. Now we’re punting. Still 0-0. Anyone’s game. But I don’t like going into the second quarter without points. Makes me all nervous and shit.
Last night, Luna asked me why I love football so much. I told her it’s not football. It’s the Eagles. ‘Cause at one o’clock on a Sunday when I barely had enough for a carton of eggs, the bar down the block would let just about any underage soul in as long as they were wearing Philly merch. I’d cheer with them during touchdowns. I’d scream with them during interceptions. It was a shared experience that I wasn’t receiving at home. And then one day, it just felt like my church. Like every Sunday, I could count on the Eagles. Thick or thin—they’d be playing and they were good enough to have a shot to win.
I never really had a shot.
And I dunno, there’s something about the city I love being good enough. It felt like no matter how many people thought I wasn’t good enough—they’d always be mine. I’d be theirs. I told Luna all this, and then I said, “Maybe it sounds silly ‘cause I don’t know anyone else who loves a city as much as I do.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m busier now than when I grew up, so I don’t catch every game. But I check the scores.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound silly. Your love of Philly is one of the things I love about you.”
That surprised me. “Ah, so you don’t think the Eagles tattoo is a bit much?” It’s on the back of my calf. I don’t even see it half the time but all the assholes walking behind me sure do.
She smiled wide. “I admit, I like the shrimp smoking on a cigarette a little more.” That one is right next to my Eagles tat.
I laughed. “Girl, you already have my heart. Stop trying to steal it again.”
It makes me feel better that I opened up to Luna last night. I’m trying my best to keep being that open book—but I’m worried she’s going to ask something that’s harder to answer. My love of the Eagles—easy. My mom’s last name—complicated.
It’s so complicated that I’ve been glad she never brought it up again since she broached the topic in December. Maybe she forgot or I’m just biding my sweet time to get my head screwed straight.
Luna grumbles something under breath as she tries for a second time to attach the pom. “The glue must not be working,” she mutters to herself. She shifts around on my lap, and I focus on the sweaty QB on screen to stop myself from getting hard.
She’s too cute.
Her little grunts in frustration shouldn’t be turning me on. No, sir. No, Bob. (Don’t know who Bob is, but I’m picturing a wrinkled geriatric to keep me soft.)
Another grunt. My dick stirs. Okay, we have to find a different tactic.
“I can help,” I tell her and just as Luna squeezes the tube of superglue, it squirts out and lands on the top of her hand—right when I grab that hand.
Our eyes latch as we realize what just happened.
My thumb. Superglued. To the top of her hand.
“First down, let’s go!” Winona hollers and bounces around her mom, until Daisy links arms with her daughter and they bounce in a circle together.
Clapping envelops the living room. I would join the applause. Thumb is out of commission though. Luna tries tugging her hand away, but there’s little give.
“Kitchen,” I tell her, about to pick her up, but she springs to her feet first while holding my hand.
There are too many people and sets of eyeballs to know who’s watching. I don’t really care if they think we’re taking a snack break or a make-out break or a break for a quickie. We’re gonna be ourselves regardless. We haven’t been fixating on outside opinions…except, probably, her mom’s.
That’s pretty much how I feel about the media too. Luna and I don’t feel a need to announce our relationship. It’ll only put more paparazzi on our ass. And we have nothing to prove to anyone.
I just wish they’d call us Lunnelly.
We’re at the sink, the only ones in the kitchen. The door is shut, muffling the TV and the groans in the living room.
“I’m sorry,” Luna says quietly. “I didn’t know it’d projectile out of the tube. I wouldn’t have done it that close.” Warm water rushes over our skin. She rubs at the glued spot with soap.
“Why are you apologizing?” I ask. “I’d let you superglue me to you any day of the week.”
“Any body part?” Her smile touches her eyes.
I can’t look away from her. “Only the best body parts. Dick included.”