Page 33 of The Longshot

My own car.

And a decently good-looking face.

Okay, that part is a little pompous, but I can’t help it. Chelsie’s got me on a downward spiral as I dissect every finite detail about myself that could’ve possibly steered her away.

Maybe she doesn’t like that I play football, but realistically, why would that matter? Football is a great profession. Not only does it allow me to support myself, but it’s allowed me to take care of my family. All the while, I get to do exactly what I love, day in and day out. How could anyone see fault in that?

I scratch it off as an option as I continue my mental search.

Maybe it’s my height? Some girls don’t like tall guys. Perhaps it's too intimidating, given that she must be a foot shorter than me. Though, a substantial height difference has never posed to be a challenge for me in the bedroom… if you know what I mean.

I scrunch my eyes closed.

Ugh.

I’m already exhausted, and I just woke up.

What could it be?

Oh? Maybe it’s my hair. Maybe she doesn’t like brunettes, some people have their preferences, I get it.

I assess the thought much deeper as I sink back. Nah, that can’t be it. The ladies love my locks almost as much as they love my coc?—

“Good morning!” a cheery voice breaks me free from the torture of my mind. “How did you sleep?”

I jolt up in surprise. “What the…” I cry out as I watch a girl emerge from my bathroom wearing nothing but my T-shirt.

Who the fuck is this?

Panic kicks in. I have absolutely no recollection of anyone coming back home with me last night after Tenners. All I can recall from last night is that after Chelsie rejected me, I embarked on a mission to free her from consuming all of my thoughts. In other words, drinking the bar dry and apparently using my lips for more than just muttering stupid comments.

“So, you think I’m charming.”

I’m such an idiot.

“You alright there?” the girl asks as I attempt to put a name to her face, running some plausible name options in my mind.

Is it Tiffany?

Brittany?

Hillary?

Christ, did she even tell me?

“Uh… yeah,” I speak, my throat hoarse as she bounces onto the mattress and wraps her arms around me. Before I know it, her longing gaze finds its way to the nape of my neck as she plants slow, tender, and delicate kisses along my skin.

What is going on?

I’m less than receptive to her touch as I awkwardly shift beneath myself, a gesture she immediately picks up on as she pulls back.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks with a look of concern in her brown eyes. “You seem tense… and not in the place you should be.” She peers down towards my crotch.

“I’m fine.” My attempt to reassure her I’m okay is just as poor as Coach’s attempt to reassure Delaney after the cake incident.

He’s rubbing off on me.

“I’m just trying to… uh?—”

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