Текст книги "The Game Plan"
Автор книги: Kristen Callihan
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Epilogue
One year later…
Fiona
The house looks perfect. Garlands of evergreen—entwined with twinkling white lights—grace the doorways, window frames, and the big fireplace mantel. Ivory pillar candles are set up in clusters, paired with clove-dotted oranges and sprigs of holly. In the corner by one of the big windows that overlooks the street stands a twelve-foot tree. I kind of love the fact that even Ethan has to pull out the stepladder to decorate the top of it.
But he does the job with a smile on his face. He hangs little football helmets covered in glitter, deep red crystal cherries, die-cast commercial jet planes, even a blown-glass ornament shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Fi sure likes her themes,” Gray observes, helping out too.
Ethan grins, his concentration on hanging a tiny mic. There’s a flush on his cheeks that I know is from happiness. This year, our tree tells the story of us, and he knows the significance of each and every item I’ve picked.
“What’s with this one?” Ivy asks, holding up an ornament shaped like a stack of pancakes.
Ethan glances at it and catches my eye. His brows rise with humor even as his gaze goes hot. My cheeks flush warm in response. We’ve had plenty of pancakes at midnight since our first attempt. After all, a girl needs to keep up her strength.
“Inside-joke ornament,” Anna guesses, her nose wrinkling. “Quick, put it on the tree and move on before they feel compelled to explain.”
At her side, Drew kisses the top of her head before saying, “I’m pretty sure Dex would have to be threatened with grievous bodily harm before he talked.”
I hand Drew a mug of hot cider before giving one to Anna. She isn’t drinking any alcohol: three guesses why. I give them both a big, sweet smile. “I’m happy to tell you all about those pancakes—”
“No!” the room shouts as a collective whole. Well, all but Ethan who snickers as he hops off the stepladder and comes to me.
He wraps me in his arms, bringing my back against his hard chest. His breath stirs my hair. “You’re so bad, Cherry.”
I relax against him. “Suckers. As if I would talk about our midnight lurve.”
His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladder and put it away.
“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.
Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.
Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal St.
“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”
“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”
I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.
“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”
I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is booming is an understatement.
When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in the kitchen. Apparently they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.
Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.
Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?
“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting produces a superior tasting bird.”
“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.
Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.
Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily basis.
I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.
A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on the sides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.
He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at that first Christmas party.
Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the other lifts his wine glass high.
At his salute, we all pick up our glasses.
“So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.
Gray sets his glass down. “Shouldn’t Fi be saying, ‘And God bless us, every one’?”
“Are you implying I’m Tiny Tim in this scenario, dickface?”
“Dickface?” Gray gives an expression of mock outrage. “If I didn’t happen to have an awesome dick, I might be offended.”
“So you’re saying you’re on board with your face resembling your dick?” Drew asks with a laugh.
“I’m saying that if my face has to resemble a dick, it might as well be the stunning sight that is my own,” Gray retorts with a waggle of his brows.
I lean in. “If you want to talk about stunning dicks—”
“No!” everyone shouts again.
I shrug and hide my smile as I take a sip of wine.
“I’m so glad sausage is on the menu,” Ethan deadpans before slicing into his banger. Drew and Gray wince, but Anna, Ivy, and I laugh.
Happiness is infectious and fills me with warmth. I’m no longer that restless girl I’d been for so long. I’d finally found my place. I give Ethan’s shoulder a kiss, and he winks at me as if he knows exactly how I feel.
Much later, it’s just me and Ethan, kneeling on our big bed, the golden glow of lamplight casting shadows over his bold features. With infinite tenderness, he cradles the sides of my neck as he slowly peppers my face with kisses. His soft lips and prickly beard send little tickles along my skin, and I sigh, leaning into his touch.
His voice is a low rumble. “So your stance on beards is?”
I smile, remembering how he first got me to kiss him. “Total fangirl. You might even call me a groupie.”
He grins against the corner of my mouth before giving my upper lip a little suck. “And football players?”
“I’m completely gone on one in particular.”
He hums in approval. “Good thing. He loves you, heart and soul.”
This time, I capture his lips and kiss him with enough heat that his chest hitches. I smile at that. “I love you too.”
Warm breath gusts along my mouth as he speaks again. “So tell me,” he murmurs, still mapping my face with kisses, “what’s your stance on marriage?”
My heart stops, and I utter a small gasp. Ethan pulls away just enough to meet my eyes. He looks at me with that solemn, steady gaze I’ve come to love so much—the one that sees my soul and wants to keep it in his care.
Tears clog my throat, make my voice thick, but my lips quiver with a smile. “Is this your way of getting me to marry you?” I tease, even as my heart pounds against my ribs.
His thumbs stroke my cheeks as his quiet eyes stare into mine. “Will you?”
I laugh, the sound getting caught on a gurgle of happy tears. “Yes, Ethan Dexter. Hell fucking yes.” I launch myself into his arms.
Laughing, he falls back on the bed, taking me with him. “Hold up,” he says, as I cover his face with kisses. “You didn’t let me give you the ring.”
“The ring! I forgot about that. Gimme, gimme.”
He laughs again. “Then give me some room to get it.”
As soon as I lean back, he grins and reaches into his pocket to pull out the ring.
It’s a large, round, pink diamond in a rose gold bezel setting. Simple, elegant, yet wonderfully girly. He slips it on my finger, and I’m in instant love.
“You made this, didn’t you?” I ask, my gaze going to his and then back to my ring.
“Not made,” he says a little gruffly. “But designed it, yeah. How did you know?”
“Because I know you.” Ethan would plan everything out, down to the exact way the ring should look.
“Do you like it?” He’s frowning at the ring as though checking for flaws in the design.
I cup his cheek and lean against his solid warmth. “It is utterly perfect. Just like you.”
He blushes at that. So I kiss him some more until he forgets to be embarrassed and gets caught up in kissing me back. He’s completely mine now. He put a ring on it, and I’m going to do the same.
“Let’s do it in San Francisco,” I say, resting my chin on his chest and admiring the way the pink diamond glitters in the low light.
He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “At the scene of the crime.”
I tickle his ribs, and he grabs my hand to nip my fingers.
“Be warned,” I tell him. “I might get the urge to take off my dress and jump in the pool. But if I do, I’m taking you with me this time.”
His smile holds the promise of forever. “Sounds like a plan, Cherry.”
Thank You!
Thank you for reading THE GAME PLAN! I hope you enjoyed it!
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Have you read books 1 and 2 of the Game On series? If not, turn the page and read samples of The Hook Up (book 1) and The Friend Zone (book 2).
The Hook Up, Book 1 of the Game On series excerpt
The rules: no kissing on the mouth, no staying the night, no telling anyone, and above all... No falling in love
Anna Jones just wants to finish college and figure out her life. Falling for star quarterback Drew Baylor is certainly not on her to do list. Confident and charming, he lives in the limelight and is way too gorgeous for his own good. If only she could ignore his heated stares and stop thinking about doing hot and dirty things with him. Easy right?
Too bad he’s committed to making her break every rule…
Football has been good to Drew. It’s given him recognition, two National Championships, and the Heisman. But what he really craves is sexy yet prickly Anna Jones. Her cutting humor and blatant disregard for his fame turns him on like nothing else. But there’s one problem: she's shut him down. Completely.
That is until a chance encounter leads to the hottest sex of their lives, along with the possibility of something great. Unfortunately, Anna wants it to remain a hook up. Now it’s up to Drew to tempt her with more: more sex, more satisfaction, more time with him. Until she’s truly hooked. It's a good thing Drew knows all about winning.
All’s fair in love and football…Game on.
Excerpt
Thankfully a small bath near the end of the hall is unoccupied. Once inside, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s blessedly quiet here, the blaring bass of the music a muted thud. My skin is flush, and my heart is still beating too hard. It’s like I’ve run a mile in a minute. Worse, part of me wants to go back downstairs where he is.
Cursing, I run cold water over my hands and splash some on the back of my neck. In the reflection of the mirror, my cheeks are pink and my eyes are shining. I look excited.
“Hell.”
I pat myself dry and, taking another calming breath, leave the bathroom. And practically run into someone. My shoulder hits the cool wall behind me as I step back to get away. Baylor stands there, his expression bemused as if he hadn’t expected me to pop out at him. Then he moves closer, taking my air, and my thoughts scatter. His eyes, intense and determined, are all I see.
And all I can think of is that we are alone together. Utterly. Finally. I can’t look at him then. Not directly. He is the sun, burning bright.
“Why are you here?” My voice is a wisp of sound in the small space.
So is his. “I want you.”
The floor dips beneath me, his confession taking up too much air. Baylor seems just as shocked by his words, his eyes going wide and his lips parting. But he commits to them with a squaring of his broad shoulders. “Tell me you don’t want me too, and I’ll go.”
My mouth opens, a denial on my lips, then he reaches for me. It’s barely a touch, just the tips of his fingers on my elbow, as if he’s planning to guide me back downstairs. It’s the smallest of contact. Nothing really. And yet it’s everything. The small contact burns, ripples outward along my skin with lightning fast intensity, and my breath hitches.
His does too. A quick glance up, and he searches my face as though seeking an affirmation. Whatever he sees must tell him that he’s not alone in this because he doesn’t let go.
Neither of us says another word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I’m going up in flames.
A quiet, pained sound escapes me as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I’m shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.
What am I doing? This is Drew Baylor. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.
I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.
His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.
His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go. He holds so still, when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.
I press down hard.
With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.
Shaking, Baylor stands there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his hips jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.
His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.
Oh, God. My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my breasts, of my body.
The top slips further, exposing more skin.
Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.
We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.
The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture, his consideration, breaks my resistance. Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again….
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The Friend Zone, Book 2 Game On series excerpt
Have you read Ivy and Gray’s story? Here’s a small preview:
4:13 am. Text to Gray Grayson from unknown source.
Unknown: Mr. Grayson, my father tells me he lent you my car. I don’t really care if he’s going to sign you or not. As said agent’s daughter, I know football players and their ways. So let me be clear. There will be no shenanigans taking place in it or you’ll answer to me. You want to hook up with one of your women, do it in a bed and not in my car.
Sincerely, Ivy Mackenzie.
GrayG: Hey, Miss Mac. You do realize your car is a bubblegum-pink Fiat 500, right? Even if I could get it up surrounded by all that heinous pink, the car is better suited for Lilliputians. So don’t worry, there will be no shenanigans (Shenanigans? Srsly? What are we, 80?) anywhere near the car. I’m not about to pull a hamstring in the pursuit of pleasure.
–Btw, beds are overrated. Branch out a little.
IvyMac: You’re schooling me on my use of shenanigans? Really, Mr. Lilliputian? I don’t know whether to choke on the hypocrisy or be impressed that you know what a Lilliputian is.
I won’t make mention of your pink phobia, and I don’t care where you do your business. Just so long as it isn’t in my car.
GrayG: Yes, I read. Contain your shock. Or maybe chill. I think you’re developing a fascination with my bzness.
IvyMac: Ok. Fine. I was an ass. Or course you read. Read this: one scratch on that car and you bought it.
GrayG: It’s a tempting offer. I mean, who wouldn’t want this car? I’m assuming you take gumdrops as currency?
IvyMac: Sure do, Cupcake. But the car’s not for sale.
GrayG: I see you’ve discovered my inherently sweet and tasty nature. Wait until you taste my frosting.
IvyMac: Eew…Keep your frosting to yourself!
GrayG: Heh. So why are we having this conversation at 4 in the morning? Don’t you sleep?
IvyMac: Sorry. I’m in London. It isn’t four in the morning here. Hey, shouldn’t you be sleeping? Why are you answering my texts anyway? ;-)
GrayG: I don’t know. Some previously unknown masochistic need to argue over a powder-puff car?
IvyMac: I always thought tight ends loved pain.
GrayG: Naw, we bring on the pain, Mac. And have awesome asses. Obviously.
IvyMac: Okay, I’m going now.
GrayG: K. Bye.
IvyMac: Bye.
GrayG: See you.
GrayG: Or not. Because you’re in London.
IvyMac: Gray?
GrayG: Yep.
IvyMac: Go to sleep.
GrayG: K. Night. Or morning. Or whatever.
GrayG: Mac? Hello? Right. You’re gone.
A few hours later…
GrayG: Mac? How do you feel about 18” chrome rims? Pretty sure when you see the result, you’ll love them.
IvyMac: What? You’re shitting me, right?!?
GrayG: Foul language, Miss Mac? I am appalled. Keep that up and I’m going to have to call shenanigans.
IvyMac: Gray! What the fuck did you do to my car?!?
GrayG: Ha! Gotcha. You freaked. Admit it.
IvyMac: I admit nothing!! Are you waking me up to terrorize me as payback for waking you up the other morning?
GrayG: Mac, it’s 8 p.m. in London. Why are you asleep?
IvyMac: Gotta get up at 3:30 a.m. I’m an apprentice at my mom’s bakery
GrayG: Pastries and shit? Oh, God, I’m having a moment.
IvyMac: Like the sweets, big guy?
GrayG: Are you talking dirty to me, Mac?
IvyMac: *eye roll* Is there a real reason for this text?
GrayG: Guess not. Sorry to bug you. Night, Mac.
IvyMac: You aren’t bugging me. I’m just grumpy because I hate getting up early. People say I’m…prickly. I don’t mean to be.
GrayG: Prickly? Naw. You’re…saucy. Like that sauce on a Big Mac.
IvyMac: If you call me special sauce, you lose a nut.
GrayG: I knew it, you’re talking dirty to me! Shenanigans!!
IvyMac: lol. Dork.
GrayG: That’s Cupcake to you, Special Sauce. Go to sleep, Mac. I’ll get to work on the rims.
IvyMac: >:-P
And the next morning…
IvyMac: I was walking down Jermyn Street today. Saw a guy in a bright pink suit, very flash. Thinking of buying you one to match the car. You could make a whole pink power statement.
GrayG: Great! But I’m pretty sure that’d have to be custom made. Extra-long, too. I dress left, btw.
IvyMac: Is it just me, or do you mention one of your body parts in every convo we have?
GrayG: You’re the one who brought up my nuts last time.
IvyMac: Only in regards to kicking them.
GrayG: But you’re thinking of my nuts. That’s the important part. ;-)
IvyMac: Sure I am, Cupcake. *pats cheek* keep dreaming the dream.
GrayG: I knew it!!! You want me bad. It’s okay, all women do.
IvyMac: Right.
A bit later…
IvyMac: Why are you borrowing my car, anyway? I find it hard to believe you don’t have your own. Is it in the shop? For-like-ever?
GrayG: My best bud Drew (he’s our QB) broke his leg. His car has a stick shift. My truck is auto. So I lent him mine and borrowed…The Pink Nightmare.
IvyMac: Gray. That’s really nice of you.
GrayG: Told you I was sweet.
IvyMac: You actually are. Totally sweet.
GrayG: Now you’re just embarrassing me. I lied. I’m a hardened thug. For realz.
IvyMac: Aw, Cupcake.
IvyMac: Gray?
IvyMac: Hello?
IvyMac: Fine, you’re a stone-cold killa. Happy?
GrayG: Yes. Although I’d prefer lady killa.
IvyMac: How about Sir Fucksalot?
GrayG: Hi-larious! Really. Night, Special Sauce.
IvyMac: Night, G-Man. ;-*
Several text exchanges after that…
GrayG: I’m bored. Talk to me. Again. Heh. Heh.
IvyMac: Soup has got to be the best thing ever. It’s an entire meal in a bowl! But in hot liquid form.
GrayG: Hot liquid form…? Unh. I’m pretty sure you’re my dream girl, Ivy Mac. Or did someone tell you that soup was my favorite meal?
IvyMac: You love soup too?!? Soup-lovers’ fist bump! Booyah!
GrayG: Booyah! And, baby, I make the best soup you’ll ever taste.
IvyMac: Oooh, talk to me, Grayson. Just. Like. That.
GrayG: Marry me, Mac.
IvyMac: Okay, but only for the soup.
A few minutes later…
GrayG: Why is six scared of seven?
IvyMac: Why?
GrayG: Because seven “ate” nine.
IvyMac: Hur! How do you count cows?
GrayG: How?
IvyMac: With a cowculator.
GrayG: So awesomely bad. I think you have to marry me now. No one else likes my jokes.
IvyMac: Good to know my bad taste in jokes is a selling point.
GrayG: It’s fucking sexy. I’m actually sporting wood.
GrayG: Mac?
GrayG: Hey, I was kidding. I’m not trying to hit on you, I swear.
GrayG: Mac?!?
IvyMac: I’m here. Sorry! I’m on the tube. Lost you in a tunnel.
GrayG: Okay. Cool. Got worried.
IvyMac: Naw. I know you were just being you.
GrayG: That’s me, always joking. Gotta head out to practice. Txt U when I’m done.
Later that day…
IvyMac: I spent the entire morning baking bread and thinking about your name.
GrayG: My name? Honey, if you’re going to think about me, concentrate on my gigantic…hands. Magic hands, baby. The things I can do with these hands are mind-boggling.
IvyMac: Like palm balls all day long?
GrayG: >:-(
IvyMac: Heh. Heh. Your name is way more interesting than your penchant for ball handling.
GrayG: Har. Gray Grayson is a special kind of torture to inflict on a kid. What can I say? My mom was reading The Pelican Brief right before I was born. Decided to name me after the hero Gray Grantham. No one could change her mind. I used to hate it. But now I love it because she picked a name she loved.
IvyMac: It’s a cool name. Bounces in my head: Gray-Grayson. Gray-Grayson!
GrayG: Hands, Mac. Think about the hands.
IvyMac: Gray-Grayson, grabbing balls with his big, strong hands…!
IvyMac: Hello?
IvyMac: Hello?
IvyMac: Spoilsport.
And a few hours after that…
IvyMac: I can’t sleep. Talk to me.
GrayG: Why can’t you sleep?
IvyMac: Because it’s nine-fucking-thirty. I have to go to sleep early because I have to get up early. Have I mentioned how much I hate getting up early?
GrayG: Aside from the three times in that text? Yeah, a bit. ;-) I run plays through my head when I can’t sleep.
IvyMac: Yep. That should do it. I’m glazing over just thinking about it. Thanks, Cupcake.
GrayG: Glad to be of service, honey. You can always count on me.
IvyMac: You’re starting to be the first person I turn to. If that freaks you out, tell me. I’ll dial it down.
GrayG: What? No. Don’t take this wrong, but I’ve kind of become addicted to your texts.
IvyMac: Me too. Talking to you is like talking to myself. Only better.
GrayG: It’s scary that I get that.
GrayG: I feel like I can tell you anything.
IvyMac: You can. That’s what friends do.
GrayG: I’ve never been friends with a girl before.
IvyMac: I’m honored to be your first.
The next morning…
GrayG: So as friends, can I still say inappropriate, sex-related things?
IvyMac: Sure. Think of me as just another guy. With a vagina.
GrayG: A. Shudder. B. Yeah, no. C. I had this dream that you were sucking my 8==> But when I looked down, I discovered it was actually a goat…you know. Then I really woke up because I yelled so hard, I fell out of bed. And now I live in mortal terror of goats.
IvyMac: LMFAO! Gray got it from a goat!
GrayG: >:-[
IvyMac: Goat-on-Gray action! Heeeee! *Falls down ded*
GrayG: You suck, you know that?
IvyMac: No, the goat does! *Dies again* My sides. My sides!
GrayG: Laugh it up, Chuckles.
IvyMac: Okay. I’m good now. Aw, Cupcake, I’m so glad we’re friends. It means a lot to me. I feel safe with you. Like I can be me without worrying about sex getting in the way of things. Or something.
IvyMac: I’m rambling. Ignore me.
GrayG: Honey, your friendship is a fucking gift. Don’t ever doubt it.
After a few more texts, and a few hours of going without…
GrayG: So I got into it with Drew. He accused me of trying to fuck his girl. I would NEVER fucking do that. Whatever people think about me, I would die before I did that shit.
IvyMac: I’d never believe that of you, Gray. I’m sorry you’re hurt. :-(
GrayG: I’m not hurt. You wouldn’t? How do you know for sure? I’m kind of known as a player. Shit, maybe I should call myself Sir Fucksalot.
IvyMac: Stop it. Any guy who crams into a tiny pink car and willingly drives it around town as a favor to his friend wouldn’t turn around and stab that friend in the back. Player or not, you’re a good guy. And I’m the only one who can call you Sir Fucksalot! >:-[
IvyMac: It’s okay to be hurt, btw. I’d be hurt if my friend accused me of that. Do you want me to come home and kick his ass? Cuz I got skillz. Mad ass-kicking skillz.
GrayG: lol. Not necessary. I know Drew doesn’t really mean it. He’s going through some stuff with his leg being broken. Just. Okay, yeah, it hurt that he took it out on me.
IvyMac: :-( {{{{hugs}}}}
GrayG: Ivy, is it weird that I kind of wish you were home? That I kind of miss you?
IvyMac: No. I wish I were there right now. I miss you too.
IvyMac: Okay. About to go into another tunnel. Txt me later, Cupcake
GrayG: Will do. Thanks for listening, Mac.
Next day…
GrayG: Everything is cool with Drew. He apologized for being a dick. We tossed around the football today. He hadn’t touched one in a while, so that was good.
IvyMac: Good. I’m so glad. I know how much he means to you.
GrayG: I’m going over to hang out with him and his girl, Anna. You’d like her. She’s saucy too. But, you know, not *special* saucy.
IvyMac: You’re risking your nuts, calling me special sauce. Don’t think I won’t make good on my threat whenever we meet.
GrayG: There you go, talking about my nuts again. One day, we gotta address this fascination you have with them.
IvyMac: Sure, we can address it, and then you can limp away.
GrayG: Empty threats, Mac. You know you couldn’t hurt me. You love me too much.
IvyMac: Whatever, Cupcake. Have fun tonight. Helpful party tip: don’t mention your nuts <—basic rules of polite society 101
GrayG: Damn, you’re telling me this now? The topic of my nuts has always been my go-to conversational opening. O.o
IvyMac: The more you know, Gray.
GrayG: What would I do without you to guide me?
IvyMac: Best not to think about that, Cupcake.
GrayG: Yeah, the idea is too terrible to contemplate. Stay safe, Ivy. I’ll txt later. You gonna be up?
IvyMac: Yes. Don’t think I can fall asleep anymore without your nightly text.
GrayG: Miss you.
IvyMac: Miss you too.
A few days and several texts later…
Gray
If life has taught me anything it’s to appreciate what you’ve got. Take something for granted and it could be gone before you even realized what you had. I learned that lesson from my mom, though I wish every day that I hadn’t. One day she was baking me apple cake and reminding me to study after football practice, the next day she’s pulling me into the den to tell me she had cancer. Hell, I remember every word of the conversation. Every fucking word punched into my flesh as if they were nails. But particularly I remember how she ended it: Live every day to the fullest, Gray. Appreciate life to the fullest, promise me that.
And I have. I still do. Enjoy the moment. Revel in it. Soak up life and fuck the rest.
It’s simple, really. I party because it’s fun. Enjoy women because I love them. Love their sweet scent, their musical laughter, and their soft curves. Play football because it’s the greatest fucking game on earth. And it’s worked for the most part. I’ve had fun.
Only now living in the moment is getting harder to do. I find my attention wandering to the future. I find myself wanting that distant future now. Here. Because of Ivy Mackenzie.
