Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I can’t be the girl who’s always waiting for the guy to figure out what she means to him, all the while knowing he’s out there surrounded by other girls.
I just can’t.
I’d rather hurt like this until he’s out of my mind and out of my heart.
31
“Next,” calls out the Combine official who’s working at the height station. He tells us all to remove our shoes, socks, and anything that might enhance our height. I remove everything, even the boot. I set it all on a bench and limp back, testing it gingerly. I’m seven days out from my injury, a far cry from the fourteen days the doctor told me I needed to wait before doing any running.
“Keep moving!” yells a trainer, and I throw him a wave and make my way across the Indianapolis Colts’ stadium floor with several other players, most long shots like me. The number eighty-two is pinned to my chest, the background a bright yellow tag that says, INJURED.
I’m better than all these guys and I know it. I heave out a breath when it’s my turn to be measured. My hands tap at my leg. I’m frazzled, and it doesn’t help that my ankle feels off without the boot on it. I’ve been the best patient I could be, following all the instructions to the letter.
My eyes quickly survey the stands, looking for Charisma. She isn’t here, of course, and my chest tightens to the point that I clutch it.
She left me—even though she knew I wasn’t with Dani. Anger and grief mingle together and brush at me, a familiar emotion I’ve been struggling with since she walked out.
How can she let us go so easily?
Don’t think about her. Focus on today.
“Do you need someone to help you walk up to the machine?” It’s one of the trainers. He watched me remove the boot earlier.
“I can still walk,” I tell him, my words clipped.
“Bad luck about the ankle. Heard about it in the break room,” the trainer says.
“Doesn’t even hurt,” I tell him. It still twinges, though, and I know it’s healing.
I step up to be measured. “Number eighty-two. Six foot, three and five-eighths inches,” the trainer calls out to someone who types it in to be displayed on a large board, the measurements appearing next to my name.
I look over and watch a group of NFL scouts scribble notes on their pads.
Blaze Townsend: tall, well built, but can’t run.
Whatever.
I shuffle to the next station with the rest of the group. Frustration swirls inside me as we make our way to the forty-yard dash, the granddaddy of all measurements for wide receivers. Every molecule inside me wants to run, wants to show them that I know I’m the best. You can be short, fat, unable to jump over a mushroom, and have seven fingers on one hand, but if you can run a fast forty, the scouts will notice.
“You running?” asks Terrance, a wide receiver from Alabama who I’ve gotten to know over the last two days of the Combine. He’s putting his shoes back on. I realize I left mine back at the bench, my thoughts scattered. Won’t need them anyway.
“Injured,” I tell him. “Just gonna sit in the waiting area now and watch.”
He frowns, probably looking at my face. “Man, that sucks. All I care about is getting on that board and seeing how fast I am.”
I compose my face slowly, working it into the semblance of a good-luck smile. “Break a leg, Alabama.”
He walks up to the track and I take a seat, my rage rushing fast and furious when I see that Archer has already run and is listed as the eighth fastest overall.
Terrance does the dash then walks back up to the bench to take a breath.
“Shit, 4.47. I ran better on campus last week.” He shakes his head and sits down.
The rest of the group finishes in unimpressive fashion, and I beat back the emotions jammed in my throat. I could have beat all of them.
“Time for us to move on,” says the trainer.
“I still haven’t run, sir.” The words are out before I can think.
He gives me a squinty-eyed look. “Thought you were skipping this station.” His eyes flick over my injured leg and then down to my ankle. The boot is still on the bench near the height station, but I refuse to look at it.
What if…what if I ignored the injury?
I weigh the options in my head in two seconds flat.
If I don’t do this now, the NFL is never going to happen.
I’ve been pushing myself for four years, and I’m going to let one injury slow me down?
FTS. Fuck that shit.
“I wanna run.”
He frowns. “You don’t have any shoes. You left them back at the last station.”
I look over at Terrance. “What size do you wear?”