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)
Remy holds up his hand. “Got it. You don’t want to out him. But if I have to endure football, you have to at least let me try to guess who it is while I’m there.”
I chuckle. “As long as it means I don’t have to sit in the stands by myself, you can try, but I’m not going to let you know if you figure it out.”
“Deal.”
Remy taps away on his phone while the game is played, and if it weren’t for the fact I can’t take my gaze off Peyton out there, I’d probably be doing the same.
He’s so sexy in his purple jersey and tight gold pants. Tight, tight pants.
“Football makes no sense.” I said what I said.
I got into Harvard, for fuck’s sake, but all these guys do is face each other, attack, and if they’re lucky, they advance a few yards. Then they do it all over again until they decide to give up and hand the ball to the other team. I’m sure there are rules about when they have to hand it over, but I’ve got no idea.
Remy ignores me and instead asks, “Where are you from again?”
“Chicag— Wait, why?”
“Ah. That makes it easier.” He taps away on his phone again.
“That’s cheating.”
“There’s a reason I don’t play sports. I like to cheat.”
“Fine. Look it up.” I’m totally bluffing. “But don’t come whining to me when the thrill of figuring it out isn’t as good as what it would be if you used your powers of deduction.”
“Yeah, that reverse psychology crap doesn’t work on me.”
Damn it.
A lump forms in my throat because if he googles Peyton, he’s going to instantly know, but while I sit, anxiously waiting for that shoe to drop, Peyton gets a pass off, way downfield, and everyone in our section of FU fans gets on their feet. I do too because I can’t see shit, and I don’t really know what’s happening, but Remy stays seated.
The guy in purple chasing after the ball in the air is running and running, but I don’t think he’s going to make it. He has two titans gaining on him, who are so fucking huge, they have no right to be college-aged.
I almost can’t look at it, but I’m glad I manage to keep my eyes open.
Peyton’s teammate catches the ball seamlessly, and jets must light under his ass because the two guys on his tail fall back, even though they’re running as fast as they were before.
Franklin U crosses the … finish line? That’s probably not what it’s called, but whatever.
“Touchdown!” people around me scream.
Oh. Right. Touchdown. All the points. Go football.
In saying that, though, the vibe as the crowd erupts is somewhat intoxicating. The team celebrates with hugs and backslaps before they all head back to the team bench.
When the crowd sits back down, I land next to Remy, who finally looks up from his phone.
“What did I miss?”
“We scored a goal.”
Remy smiles. “Even I know it’s called a touchdown.”
“Are those two words not interchangeable?” Maybe I should have gone to more football games in high school.
Remy shakes his head. “I’d like to see you tell a hockey player to score a touchdown on the ice.”
“Fair point.” I playfully nudge him with my shoulder. “But we’re not here for the football anyway.”
“I’m starting to think we’re not here for funsies either.” He puts his phone away. “I can’t find anything on your guy.”
Even though I find that next to impossible, I don’t question it. Surely it’s not that hard to search the guys on the team and where they came from. Though with … I lose count of the number of players on the bench when I get to thirty, so it would be a timely process.
“Shame. Need a new tactic, then.” I regret the words as soon as I say them because from then on, instead of watching the game, Remy watches me.
Peyton’s not on the field because Franklin doesn’t have possession of the ball, so I’m not too worried. Yet. I am scared about what will happen when Peyton’s back out there again because as much as I can force myself to look at the other players, I know where my gaze will inevitably end up.
Which is why, when the ball changes possession again and Peyton runs onto the field, I reach over and cup Remy’s cheek and push it so he’s watching the field and not me.
The stadium is busy but not crowded, and we’re only four rows from the front, but in this moment, I swear Peyton’s gaze finds mine.
My stomach flips at the thought of him noticing me, but maybe I’m wrong. Because he turns to his teammates, and they huddle together before breaking into their line.
“How long is left?” Remy complains.
“The timer at the beginning said fifteen minutes, but it took over half an hour for it to wind down. So … an eternity?”