Page 21 of The Casanova Complex

Can you blame me?

I wasn’t lying when I told Merritt I’m only taking this class because there was literally nothing else available. I heard her loud and clear when she said I didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take Creative Writing.

And she’s not wrong about that.

But that’s not what she really meant.

What she meant is she thinks I’m a dumb fuck who doesn’t know how to do anything but play hockey. And I didn’t correct her.

Partly because I was too busy trying not to get a chub when she was being mean to me, but also because that’s what most people think about me, and I’ve always let them.

They have no idea that my grades are solid and my GPA has always been well above what I need to play.

That underneath this chiseled jaw and perfect hairline, I’ve actually got a brain in here.

I’m not the smartest, sure, but I’m not an idiot.

Although I currently feel like a dumbass trying to read this book.

Upon my Google search, I discovered there are actually several movies and TV shows about this book…

And as tempted as I am to cheat and watch the movie, I refuse to let Merritt be right about me.

I shove the book beneath my arm as I walk downstairs and head to the kitchen in search of food. I’m fucking starving, and my stomach hasn’t stopped growling since I woke up from my nap thirty minutes ago.

I usually spend every Sunday meal prepping for the week first thing in the morning and then the rest of the day making sure I’m caught up on homework or whatever took the back burner during the week.

Today, that was a fire-ass nap because I’m fucking exhausted.

I’ve been putting in extra hours lifting and training, watching tape, working with our conditioning coach on adjusting my program. I’ve been feeling like I’m dragging lately, and I don’t know, maybe my issue’s in recovery and it’s not my luck.

The problem is I can’t tell if it’s in my head or if it’s in my hands.

I’ve been doing my best to block Gauthreaux out and to focus on doing whatever it takes to make sure the net is mine.

After last night’s game, I’ll be sitting out the next, and I’m pissed.

Mostly at myself.

That’s all to say I haven’t had time to even pick up the book since I got it at the library until today.

Problematic since tomorrow’s the next time Merritt and I are supposed to meet.

What are the odds I can read five hundred pages in like… six hours?

Midnight should be early enough for me to catch a few hours before I head to the weight room.

The real question is, does she actually expect me to read the entire damn book before tomorrow?

I tuck the book into the waistband of my shorts and pull one of the southwest bowls I prepped this morning out of the fridge, then pop it into the microwave.

Once it’s ready, I carry it into the living room before flopping down onto the couch cushions.

A second later, Tyler pounds down the stairs and starts sniffing the air like he’s a bloodhound. “That smells fucking good. What is it?”

“Southwest bowl. Made you one earlier; it’s in the fridge. Sans corn because you’re a weirdo.”

He grunts. “Thanks.”