Page 6 of The Illicit Play

He dared because she wasn’t mine anymore. She hadn’t been mine for two months, and I was still pining like a fucking sap while she was moving on.

So, no, you can’t control life with long-term plans and goals.

Life is still gonna kick you in the balls and point at you, laughing its head off while you writhe on the ground in pain.

And it’s fucking doing it again.

Mocking me with thoughts of a blonde hottie who likes to shave her legs butt naked in my bathroom.

Fuck!

CHAPTER 3

BLAKE

Music is pumping through the kitchen as I stand over the chopping board, grating carrots for the salad Satch wants to make. She’s beside me, preparing chicken tenders and singing along. I don’t know the song. It’s some old tune that my grandparents probably listened to growing up… or maybe even my great-grandparents.

Seriously? That’s taking old-school to the extreme.

As much as I want to tease her about it, I keep my mouth shut because she sounds ah-mazing! The girl’s got a set of pipes on her, and I think it’s totally shit that she’s majoring in English when she should be doing performing arts, or at least studying music. She’s thinking about becoming a teacher. Well, duh! Teach music, girl!

But Wily’s super protective of her, and I can’t go challenging her on that shit.

Besides, I can’t risk anyone turning around to challenge me on what I’m studying.

Or not studying.

Glancing over my shoulder, I check on my brother,grateful he can’t read my mind. Thankfully, he’s too busy staring at his girl, a small smile on his face. He loves watching her.

Kinda creepy if you ask me, but his dopey, loved-up grin is too cute.

The guy is gone.

I mean, I knew the romantic sap would end up falling hard one day, but I thought it’d be later on, once his football career was underway.

Satch took him by surprise, that’s for sure.

And the timing couldn’t be better, because the poor guy needs something to help him through his shitty situation.

My gaze creeps down to his bandaged leg propped up on a chair, and I can’t help that burn of disappointment on his behalf. He’d had it all mapped out. For years. And now he’s sitting there with crutches leaning on the wall behind him.

It’s so fucking unfair.

He doesn’t deserve this shit.

Not like you.

My insides writhe and I shake off the thought, focusing back on my carrot situation.

Cooking for a house full of athletes and their partners is a mission. Every meal has to be just so, with the correct amount of protein and carbohydrates and nutrients.

Why they don’t just eat at the athletes dining hall, where all that shit is provided, is beyond me. Wily used to eat there all the time last year, but then Zander’s baby mama appeared back in his life, bringing with her an adorable two-year-old who just loves seeing her Daddy’sbess fens. So now they do dinner on the regular like some happy, clappy family.

It’s the most un-college-y thing in the world, if you ask me.

And cooking? Why?

Has no one ever heard of takeout before? Uber Eats? DoorDash?