Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“Beautiful ball, Carter,” Coach B says. “Now, run some crossers.”
“On it,” I reply.
Coach B, our offensive coordinator, and the team’s quarterbacks coach are huddled together behind me, discussing and dissecting every aspect of my performance. I can feel their eyes on me and know I’m under the microscope. They haven’t said anything one way or the other, and I know this is part of my audition for the starting job. Good thing I thrive on pressure. If I folded when the heat got turned up, I never would have been able to lead my team to a pair of championships.
“And go,” I call.
Taking the snap, I take a three-step drop then fire a strike across the field, hitting my receiver square in the numbers, perfectly in stride. The coaches give me a small round of applause. Meanwhile, Ryder stands off on the sideline by himself glowering at me. Though tempted to give him the finger, I resist and manage to control myself. Ryder doesn’t have my self-control and actually does give me the finger with a sneer on his lips. Realizing I might have looked that stupid and immature if I’d given in to my impulse, I just shake my head and laugh.
As I regain my composure and get myself set up for the next drill, I see Cami emerge from the training facility. She stops to speak with somebody else on the training staff. I continue watching her. The memory of the kiss we shared floods my mind, and I can feel her lips on mine. I find myself reveling in the velvety feeling of her tongue on mine and tasting the mint on her breath all over again. The sound of her small whimpers rings in my ears and before I know it, I feel myself stiffening.
“Cole,” Coach B yells. “Pull your head out of your ass and run the goddamn play.”
“Right,” I mutter and walk toward the line again.
As I lean down to take the snap, I see Cami look over at me and smile. It makes me wonder if the memories of our kiss are rocketing around in her head the same way they’re rocketing through mine. More thoughts, far more impure than just a kiss, fill my brain as I look at her. The feeling of her full, round tits pressed to my arm as she kissed me make me desperate to feel them unleashed from her shirt and bra and in my hands. In my mouth.
“Cole, let’s go for fuck’s sake!” Coach B shouts.
“And go,” I call.
The center snaps the ball, but I’m still watching Cami from the corner of my eye. The ball bounces off my hands and hits the ground, but when I move to snatch it up, I accidentally kick it and watch in horror as it goes skittering across the field.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“Cole, what the fuck was that?” Coach B shouts.
“Hands are slick. My bad.”
I make a point of grabbing the towel tucked into the waistband of my shorts and wiping my hands. My eyes keep drifting over to Cami, who’s walking toward the field we’re on. She’s trying to appear casual, but she keeps stealing glances at me, which of course, disrupts my focus yet again. I give myself a small shake of my head and try to concentrate.
“Let’s go. Run the play,” Coach B calls.
Glancing at Cami one last time, I turn and walk back over and get under center again. And once again, the memories of that stolen kiss slam into my mind. Gritting my teeth, I try to push them out of my head, and even though I know I shouldn't, I call for the snap.
“And go.”
The snap is clean, and I take a five-step drop and then unload. Already knowing I fucked up, I put my hands on my hips and watch as the bail sails downfield, overshooting the receiver by a good ten yards. When it hits the ground and bounces away, I lower my head.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Jesus Christ, Cole. What the fuck was that?” Coach B shouts.
“Sorry, Coach. Still working on my timing.”
He consults with the other coaches and a heavy feeling settles into the bottom of my gut. I already know what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Okay, that’s good for now, Cole,” he calls. “Let’s get Simmons in.”
Yanking off my chin strap, I head for the sidelines. The rookie passes me on the way onto the field with a shit-eating grin on his face and chuckles.
“Nice job, old man,” he says. “I think you just made me QB1.”
“Fuck off.”
I take my spot on the sideline and watch him sling his first pass with a deft touch and some real pepper on it. Dammit, he may be right. I can’t help but feel like I just fumbled away the chance I was given.