AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mylegsarescreamingand my shirt is drenched with sweat by the time I reduce the incline on my treadmill, transitioning into my cooldown. Beside me, Grant does the same. “That sucked,” he pants, draping his burly frame over the control panel. “We’re done, right?”
“Yeah.” I grab my phone off the ledge in front of me and pause the music we’ve been listening to. It’s after nine o’clock; the campus gym is deserted except for us. Sometimes we run into other guys from the baseball team here, but we seem to be the only two who come every single day in the off-season. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re also the only two expected to be drafted high. “Did you eat dinner?”
“Earlier, yeah.”
I woofed down a protein bar before starting my workout, but my gut is begging for something more substantial. I pause to take a swig of water, then shoot Azalea a text.Are you home?
The dots pop up right away, and I watch the screen, waiting for her answer.Yes, I’m home. Yes, my dad sent food. Yes, you can come over.
I laugh out loud, although I’m a little offended.I also missed you.
Sure,she shoots back.
“Who are you talking to?” Grant asks.
I text Azalea one more time, letting her know I’ll be there in about half an hour, and then drop my phone into the pocket of my shorts. “Zale. She got back from Colorado today.”
He unwinds the towel from his neck and drags it down his sweaty face. “When are you gonna do something about that?”
“About what?” I ask, playing dumb as I push the button to reduce my speed.
“About you wanting to bone Azalea.”
My head snaps around as I glare at him. “Don’t talk about her like that.” All I get in return is a smirk, and I wince, knowing I’ve played right into his hand. I busy myself with knocking down the speed on my treadmill a little bit more. “I don’t need to do anything. We’re friends.”
“You going over there after this?”
I stare straight ahead. “No.”
Grant guffaws. “Liar.”
“Look—”
“Okay, okay. Before you deck me, let’s talk about how I flunked my test today.”
I’m not one to solve problems with violence, but I jump at the opportunity for a subject change anyway. “The one you were cramming for last night?”
“Yeah. My mom called earlier and I told her.”
“Why would you tell her?”
“She would’ve found out eventually,” he says. He stacks his hands on top of his head, flattening his messy hair, and breathes out. “She was pissed.”
“Did you get a lecture?”
“Oh yeah. Nothing is guaranteed, my body could give out any day, I could be in a terrible accident, blah blah blah.”
Grant’s mom is on the same wavelength as mine regarding this issue. In fact, we’ve been friends for so long that our mothers are friends, too, and I’m pretty sure they talk shit about us behind our backs. The thing is, Grant is almost guaranteed to be drafted high this June. I’m a highly ranked first baseman, but any good hitter can be moved to first base. Good catchers are few and far between, and Grant is the total package: he calls a good game, gets on base, and hits with power. He’ll fly off the market on draft day.
“Then you’ll get a big settlement,” I say. “Win-win.”
He chuckles. A few seconds pass, and then he says, “I need to do better, though. I hate hearing it, but she’s right—I should have a backup plan.”
“You know how I feel about backup plans.”
“It means you’re not committed?”
“Exactly.”
