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for himself in the process. He finished the season dead last in the league& and I never saw what's-her-
name again.
When I feel a hand clamp on my shoulder, I don't have to turn around to know it's Emmett. "You saving
this for me?" he asks, moving to stand beside me.
"Yep," I answer, sliding my leg off the stool, and then using my foot to push it toward him.
"Knew I could count on you to snag us good seats," he says, setting his notebook down on the table.
"Between this and your excellent research skills, you're the best work wife ever. You make my job easy."
"No matter how much you flatter me, I'm not gonna sleep with you," I remark, smirking but still not looking
at him.
"That's okay. Husbands never want to screw their wives anyway," he scoffs. "That's what girlfriends are
for."
Even though I know I'm falling right into his trap, I flip him off over my shoulder. He laughs loudly, as I
expected, then grabs the bill of my Mariners hat, pulling it off my head. When I turn to grab it from him,
he holds it above my head, out of my reach.
"Jesus! You're like the older brother I never wanted," I say through gritted teeth, standing on the rungs
of the stool to yank my hat out of his grasp.
"Hot older brother," he contends.
"Jackwagon older brother," I mutter, sitting back down with a huff. I put my hat on again, tucking the hair
around my face underneath.
"Aw, come on, Swan," he soothes. "Will you forgive me if I get you a beer?"
I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow at him. "Maybe."
Laughing, he heads toward the bar as I face forward again, looking at the big screen hanging on the
wall in front of me. The game hasn't started yet, but the local newscasters are reporting live from the
sidelines as the team warms up. I smile when I see my dad walk by in the background.
"Hey, Bella," Connor says, sitting down across from me. "Can I ask you about a couple of guys?"
"Sure," I answer, powering on my laptop, and then giving him my attention. Connor is one of Emmett's
best friends, but he doesn't follow football very closely. He quizzes me every year on draft day to get my
opinion on his picks. For the next few minutes, he peppers me with questions about players, nodding
along as I talk about touchdown to turnover ratio and net yards gained per rush attempt. When Peter 
my least favorite person in our league  sits down next to Connor and immediately contradicts most of
what I say, I roll my eyes and glance back up at the television.
Mistake. Big mistake.
As I look up, the local sportscaster's face, which was filling the screen, is suddenly replaced by Cullen's.
I study him as the camera zooms in tighter. He looks serious& nervous. Inexplicably, my stomach drops
as if I've just crested the hill of a gigantic roller coaster. What the hell?
"A little help here, Swan," Emmett says from behind me. Ripping my eyes away from the TV, I twist
around to see him holding three bottles of beer and a basket of chili-smothered fries. Laughing, I take
the fries and set them down, then take my beer as he hands one of the others to Connor. After taking
two big gulps, I slide my eyes to the screen again and breathe a silent sigh of relief that Cullen is gone.
Our draft starts a few minutes later, and I refocus on the task at hand. Rounds one and two go quickly
as everyone competes to get the star or sleeper player who will get the most fantasy points. I get the
guys I wanted in both rounds, and I help Connor choose players when he's unsure.
"Time out!" Emmett bellows, holding his hands up in a T before round three begins. "Seahawks offense
is on the field. Swan and I need to watch."
Everybody else at the table seems interested, too, turning their attention to one of the several
televisions around the room. Picking up the fresh beer Connor brought me a few moments ago, I look up
at the screen just as the offense breaks the huddle and lines up. Gladly, my stomach stays where it's
supposed to this time as I open a blank document on my laptop to take notes for tomorrow.
On first down, Cullen drops back, but his feet are too jumpy. After shifting from foot to foot several times,
he finally sets, cocks his arm and throws a decent pass, but the receiver isn't in the right spot to catch it.
The running back gets the hand-off on second down, gaining four yards. Third down and six yards to
go. Cullen will have to throw again here. I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. This time, his
pass is on target, hitting the receiver in the hands& but the ball drops to the ground. There's a
collective groan from the table as the punter runs onto the field.
Down the table, someone calls time in and round three begins. Although I'm listening to the draft, I'm
also typing a list of topics I want to talk about tomorrow morning as Emmett reads over my shoulder. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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