Clearly I’m not getting anywhere, so I might as well leave and go do something productive.
* * *
“ Y ou’re still not finished with that thing?” Brie asks, smoothing down her pleated tennis skirt as we take a seat at the nearby bench.
I pull out my croissant from the bag, my only lunch for the day while working the extra shift at Doubleday. The flaky buttery crust melts in my mouth and I enjoy it for just a split second before I come back down to the real world. “No, Brie, I’m not. Something’s wrong with me.”
She purses her lips at me, pushing her blonde hair out of her way. “Something’s wrong with you, really? You’re just now noticing that?”
If we’re about to have this kind of conversation, then I’m ready to leave. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Brie is brutal at times but at least she’s honest, never worrying about whether she’s going to offend or hurt someone’s feelings. “For someone so talented, you’re pretty damn dense. It’s that guy, Ramona. The soccer star dude? Your wannabe boyfriend?”
“Benji? What the hell would he have to do with it?” I never told Brie about the run-in with Benji, just that I found out he was living in L.A. now. And of course she told me I needed to immediately find him and fuck his brains out, but that’s her for you.
My friend throws her hands up in the air, laughing out of frustration. “Oh my God, sometimes I can’t even with you. Benji is like the catalyst here, you know what I mean?”
I stop in mid-chew, looking over at her as if she’s lost her mind. She has if she thinks that’s the case.
And then it hits me. Bad timing. Benji.
How the hell did I not realize this before? Benji. He’s the reason why I’m stuck. He has to be, especially since he was the main encouragement for my muse to take on the canvas finally. And now I’m stuck because of him and what I did. God, could I be any more of a moron? I could, I know I could. But I don’t want to be, not anymore.
I need to find a way to clear Benji from my mind. I simply can’t be distracted.
Chapter 13
B enji
I end up stopping by Diego Park, knowing there’s a good spot to warm up before I go on my run. I have to admit, it’s been a rough ass day and I could use getting lost to the run.
It’s a little warmer out than I would like, but I get over it quickly and stretch out on the bench. I’m stressed out to the max. I never stress out, I never let shit like this get to me, but dammit if it hasn’t been happening since I moved. I thought I’d be in better graces with the guys, but even though they respect my skills, they still treat me like I’m some kid. It’s bullshit, especially when you go from being the top of the game to the bottom of the totem pole. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. But no, I’m not going to let that drama fuck with my brain right now. All I want to do is run and not think about anything else for the rest of the afternoon.
Coach’s voice booms in the back my head. “Lundgren, get your shit together, man. You got to make sure you watch for your teammates. This isn’t a one-man show, and you should already know that. I know your coach didn’t teach you that way, so what the hell are you thinking?”
I lie back on the bench, set to do my fifty sit-ups before I go. With each sit-up, I think of running faster and faster. That has been one thing that I’ve been able to improve on—the running. I already outran everyone on my team when I first got here, but now it’s by way more. No one can touch me when I’m on the field, not unless I want to pass to them or want to block them. Apparently I’m too good for the team and I need to learn more sportsmanship. Sorry, I didn’t realize they cared more about being nice and less about winning . . .
Whatever. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine . . . fifty. I lay back though, not wanting to get up just yet. Man, moving out to L.A. is so much different than I thought it would
* * *
“ Y ou’re still not finished with that thing?” Brie asks, smoothing down her pleated tennis skirt as we take a seat at the nearby bench.
I pull out my croissant from the bag, my only lunch for the day while working the extra shift at Doubleday. The flaky buttery crust melts in my mouth and I enjoy it for just a split second before I come back down to the real world. “No, Brie, I’m not. Something’s wrong with me.”
She purses her lips at me, pushing her blonde hair out of her way. “Something’s wrong with you, really? You’re just now noticing that?”
If we’re about to have this kind of conversation, then I’m ready to leave. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Brie is brutal at times but at least she’s honest, never worrying about whether she’s going to offend or hurt someone’s feelings. “For someone so talented, you’re pretty damn dense. It’s that guy, Ramona. The soccer star dude? Your wannabe boyfriend?”
“Benji? What the hell would he have to do with it?” I never told Brie about the run-in with Benji, just that I found out he was living in L.A. now. And of course she told me I needed to immediately find him and fuck his brains out, but that’s her for you.
My friend throws her hands up in the air, laughing out of frustration. “Oh my God, sometimes I can’t even with you. Benji is like the catalyst here, you know what I mean?”
I stop in mid-chew, looking over at her as if she’s lost her mind. She has if she thinks that’s the case.
And then it hits me. Bad timing. Benji.
How the hell did I not realize this before? Benji. He’s the reason why I’m stuck. He has to be, especially since he was the main encouragement for my muse to take on the canvas finally. And now I’m stuck because of him and what I did. God, could I be any more of a moron? I could, I know I could. But I don’t want to be, not anymore.
I need to find a way to clear Benji from my mind. I simply can’t be distracted.
Chapter 13
B enji
I end up stopping by Diego Park, knowing there’s a good spot to warm up before I go on my run. I have to admit, it’s been a rough ass day and I could use getting lost to the run.
It’s a little warmer out than I would like, but I get over it quickly and stretch out on the bench. I’m stressed out to the max. I never stress out, I never let shit like this get to me, but dammit if it hasn’t been happening since I moved. I thought I’d be in better graces with the guys, but even though they respect my skills, they still treat me like I’m some kid. It’s bullshit, especially when you go from being the top of the game to the bottom of the totem pole. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. But no, I’m not going to let that drama fuck with my brain right now. All I want to do is run and not think about anything else for the rest of the afternoon.
Coach’s voice booms in the back my head. “Lundgren, get your shit together, man. You got to make sure you watch for your teammates. This isn’t a one-man show, and you should already know that. I know your coach didn’t teach you that way, so what the hell are you thinking?”
I lie back on the bench, set to do my fifty sit-ups before I go. With each sit-up, I think of running faster and faster. That has been one thing that I’ve been able to improve on—the running. I already outran everyone on my team when I first got here, but now it’s by way more. No one can touch me when I’m on the field, not unless I want to pass to them or want to block them. Apparently I’m too good for the team and I need to learn more sportsmanship. Sorry, I didn’t realize they cared more about being nice and less about winning . . .
Whatever. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine . . . fifty. I lay back though, not wanting to get up just yet. Man, moving out to L.A. is so much different than I thought it would
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