Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Ryann looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Uh. I don’t know.”
A normal answer would be Four! or As many as you can get me! Which is probably why my brother is setting down his cinnamon roll, talking with his mouth full.
“You’re gonna date my brother but not come to our games? You kiddin’ me right now?”
She shakes her head. “No, no—it’s just, I hadn’t thought of it?”
This is not to be believed by any of the Colter men.
“Hadn’t thought of it?”
Ryann sets down her fork. “What did I say that’s wrong?”
“You hadn’t thought about it.” Drake is being serious. “Really.”
“Yes, really. I normally spend my Saturdays at the diner or doing laundry.”
My brothers have no words for this phenomenon, but I wish they’d let it go.
“You’d rather spend your weekend doing laundry?” His head swivels back and forth between the pair of us. “Dallas, you can’t be serious.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want to go to your game! I said I normally spend my weekends working or doing laundry—that’s not a crime!”
“It is in this house,” I mutter, digging through the scrambled eggs on my plate in search of a piece of sausage.
She turns in her chair to face me directly. “Do you want me at your game?”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t hurt if, you know—you were seen there. I can let Eli know and he can, like…arrange for you to appear on camera.”
“Appear on camera?” The puzzle pieces aren’t clicking into place. “What does that mean?”
“Cameras. For TV. The games are televi—”
Her hand goes up to cut me off. “I know they’re televised, but why would I be on it?”
“’Cause,” Drew cuts in to explain, “when a high-profile player is datin’ someone, the media loves to make her a darling, unless of course she’s a raging bitch, like Ben Davenport’s fiancée, Starla. She’s already blowing his money on designer bags and shoes and prancin’ around the sidelines to be photographed, and he ain’t even been drafted yet. Poor bastard.”
Ben Davenport plays for another Big Ten school, and he’ll no doubt be drafted early, same as I will. He also happens to be engaged to a former cheerleader who has made it her new goal to be a social media darling by riding on Ben’s coattails and future fame.
My brother is right—he is a poor bastard.
“How would the cameras even know where to find me?”
“His agent will be the one getting you seats, and he’ll make a call. That’s how they’ll know.”
“A call to who?”
“The powers that be,” Drew tells her.
“Okay, but who are the powers that be?”
He waves his hand around. “You know—the media. The control booth. They always know who’s who at the stadium.”
Ryann shakes her head. “I’m not a who’s who.”
Drake laughs. “No, but you will be.”
“I just want to sit in the student section,” she declares. “With everyone else.”
“Ah, so you do want to come to the game!” Drake grins, pleased to have railroaded her onto our schedule.
“No, but if I do, I want to be nameless and faceless.” Ryann’s foot bumps mine below the table.
“But that defeats the purpose,” I mumble again. “The point of this arrangement is for everyone to know I’m dating a good girl.”
Point to me.
“But you never mentioned what that entails.”
Point to Ryann.
“Can I think about it?” she asks.
I nod. “Yup.”
twenty-one
ryann
“Dating him was pointless. We could have just stayed strangers.”
– Ryann Winters
And that’s how I ended up in the stands at a Wisconsin football game in a borrowed hoodie, borrowed red mittens, and a newly purchased white knit hat.
I’ve got spirit, yes, I do. I’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?
Not.
Winnie, Sav, and I found our seats with the help of a stadium concierge—a person whose job I never knew existed—after a trip to the concession stand and toilets, the line a mile long at the female bathrooms.
“This is ridiculous,” Winnie complained when we stood waiting. “I’m going to go to the men’s room—there’s never a line there.”
Sav gripped her arm. “They’re not letting anyone get away with that anymore.”
Winnie threw her arms up. “They should convert the men’s into another women’s room and add a tiny men’s toilet. There’s never a line over there.” She pouted.
She’s not wrong.
“Want a nacho?” She’s holding the plastic, fried-tortilla-filled treat in the freezing cold air.
“Uh, no, thanks. The cheese is already fermented.”
She’s digging a chip into the center of the sludge. “That’s the beauty of the nacho.”
“I find beauty in a lot of things, but never stadium nachos.”
“You’re the one missing out.”
Totally.
Sav, our friend from freshman year who picks up the occasional shift at the diner every so often, was more than happy to tag along, the tickets we scored a hot commodity on campus.
“How the hell did you get seats on the fifty-yard line so close to the action?”
Winnie answers for me, chewing. “She’s best buddies with Dallas Colter.”