Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
He lets out a loud breath and then rolls off me, slumping beside me on his bed and throwing his arm over his eyes. “Well, this isn’t awkward at all.”
I want to ask if he means making each other come in general or the messes in our underwear, but I get the feeling I might not like the answer.
Levi stands and moves to a chest of drawers, pulling out a pair of underwear and throwing them at me. They hit me in my chest. “Uh … for, umm …” He points to the wet patch on my boxers.
“Uh, right.” I stand and drop my jeans and underwear. I’ve grown up in locker rooms, so all of my teammates have seen me naked countless times, but this is different.
Even though Levi turns his back to me, I feel exposed.
I feel … confused.
The Calvin Klein boxer briefs he threw at me fit snugly against my skin. I’m used to boxers where my junk doesn’t think it’s being suffocated to death.
That’s when I notice Levi tucking himself away and doing up his fly without changing first.
Oh, shit. “Did you not … like … umm … you know?” My cheeks heat. He’s right. This is awkward.
He turns to me with that same flirty smile from earlier. “I did. But I think I got more on your boxers than mine.”
“Oh. Okay. Umm, cool.”
“And I mean, it was fun, but …” Levi glances away, and the rejection stings like a bitch, but I shrug it off.
“Not your thing. I get it. It’s not like we’ll see each other again or anything. I’m guessing you’re going to an East Coast school.”
“Boston.”
“Ah. Harvard.” I pronounce it Hahvid like a Bostonian.
“Yep.”
The awkwardness kicks in again, and I realize I’m still standing here, in his underwear, and I haven’t put my jeans back on yet.
If I do it now, will it be more or less awkward than waiting for him to leave?
I grab them off the bed and pull them up my legs, but before I can get my fly done back up, the door to the room flies open, and both of us jump a mile.
My brother stands there with a mix of shock and gloating on his face. “Uh, here you are.”
“Here I am.” I zip up my pants.
“We need to go. Curfew.”
Right. Shit.
I glance at Levi. “Good luck in college.”
“Kick ass at sports.”
I leave with Brady, ignoring the knowing looks he throws my way while I say goodbye to the guys from the football team and for the entire walk to the elevators outside Levi’s apartment.
As soon as the doors close, Brady turns to me. “You smell like weed, by the way. Dads are gonna be pissed.”
“Switch shirts with me.”
“With pleasure.” Ah, my baby bro. Always there for me. Plus, any excuse for him to get our dads’ attention. I’m the older child, the one who inherited Marcus Talon’s talent. Brady is good, and he could totally make it to the NFL if he tried harder, but he has absolutely no aspirations to play pro football.
I think getting caught with weed might actually help him in that area. Can’t play football if you’re kicked off the team for banned substances.
We change shirts, his way too big on me and mine way too tight on him, but it works. Our dads will probably be asleep when we get home anyway. Hopefully.
But then Brady does the staring thing again. “Something you’d like to share?”
Nope.
It’s obvious he knows something happened, but I don’t want to make it a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal to Levi, so I won’t turn it into this big existential crisis. So even though the words taste bitter on my tongue, I recycle what Levi said back there. “It was fun, but it wasn’t my thing.”
Brady jumps up and down, shaking the whole damn elevator. “Can I please be the one to tell our dads you were the first to pop their ‘sex with a dude’ cherry?”
That’s the last thing I need. “Fuck no. It was nothing.”
And I’m going to tell myself that forever and ever.
CHAPTER TWO
peyton
No matter how many times I’m recognized in San Luco by random people, it still amazes me when strangers tell me, “Great game last weekend.” I wave and smile like I always do, knowing that this shit is only going to get worse after the draft.
I have one more year left of my college-playing days, and unlike the freak-out I had when graduation was looming over me in high school, the last three years playing for FU have conditioned me to be ready. I’m confident—maybe sometimes too confident—and I can’t wait to sign with an NFL team.
Technically, I could’ve been drafted this past April, but my dads advised against it. It’s not that they think I won’t make it or I’m not good enough. They just wanted me to be as prepared as I could when I run out onto that professional field. It’s not only me who’s been planning for this my whole life.