I blink. “That was a lot to take in.”
“Yeah, I’m not the best at advice.” His laughter has me laughing. “Just listen to your heart, not Little Dawson.”
I snort at that. “Listen, he isn’t little.”
“God, you should have been my son.” We share a laugh. “You’re a cocky little fucker, but you’re good like your dad.”
I smile as my heart swells, but I admit, “I never wanted these feelings.”
“None of us did, yet when your person comes into your life, you might as well call her Miley Cyrus ’cause she’s coming in like a wrecking ball.” I hear the grin in his voice.
My uncle Jude is a hoot, if you haven’t noticed. “So, even if she is trying to shut me down, I should keep going for her?”
“Does she like you?”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” I say with no doubt. “She has been hurt, though.”
“Well, first you gotta be patient, and then you gotta show her you’re different.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “That was my plan.”
“Good. Now, putting my agent hat back on—” I groan, and he laughs at my expense. “Don’t get distracted by this girl.”
It’s right then that I see my teammates coming toward me. Excitement burns throughout my body at the sight of them. “Already am. No use in trying to talk me out of it. Love you.”
I hang up, much to his protest, as I start bouncing on my toes like I’m waiting to throw the ball to an open receiver for the winning touchdown. The excitement is coming out of my pores because I know that Ambrosia had to love what I did. That she agreed automatically to come to my game. I mean, I spent all my free time making the signs and Post-it notes for her. I drew little pictures that went with what I said. They were terrible, but I wanted to make them special.Pretty words are just words, but really bad sketches of me are special.
At least, I hope she thinks so.
When they hand me the signs, they don’t look excited or pleased with their actions like they were when I asked them to do this.
Instead, they look a bit dejected.
Shit, did my heart-stopper tear them a new one?
I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She’s got that black cat energy for sure.
What? I was watchingHocus Pocuslast night while I was making posters.
“Did it go badly? Did she cuss you guys out or something?”
Hunter, my center, cringes.
“No, man. But she started crying.”
My stomach drops.
What?
I grip the posters, my knuckles turning white from how tightly I’m holding them as my heart pounds in my chest.
Grayson, my tight end, winces. “And not good tears either.”
My breathing is ragged as I draw in my brows in confusion. I don’t like when girls cry. It makes me feel weird, which is why I’m always honest with my intentions. Knowing I made Ambrosia cry not good tears instantly makes me feel sick. I go over everything I did—the signs, the words, the drawn pictures. It was all cute and adorable. Why would it make her sad?
“I don’t think she’s interested, dude,” Hunter adds.
“Yeah, may want to lay off,” Maverick, my left guard, says before walking off with the guys. All of them look defeated, like my failure is theirs.
