Page 12 of Hard to Score

“Just be careful with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just be careful.” He shrugs with his hands and meets my eyes. “Obviously you’re working with Kincade,” he continues, speaking of Kincade Sports Management.

It’s the first time either of us has delved into this realm. We’ve spoken about past family vacations, about college years, about the mundane, but we’ve avoided—perhaps purposely—what happened and the current day.

But now he went there and I have no choice but to respond.

“Yes. We all work there.” I lean back in my chair.

He falls silent and takes a sip of his beer, but his eyes stay fixed on mine, almost as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Is that why you’re here, Brex? To recruit me? Because if it is, you can save your breath. I’m not going to switch agencies.” He leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. “And if that is the reason, it’s pretty shitty to come here under the guise of catching up only to know you want something from me.”

“Drew. That’s not . . .” I bark out an uncomfortable laugh. “I should be offended by your question but I understand where you’re coming from. Yes, I’m an agent, but I’m not so conniving that I’d come to your house, get you buzzed, and then try to sell you why your agent is doing you no favors whatsoever.”

“I think you just kind of tried to.” He laughs and holds up his thumb and forefinger a little bit apart. “Just a little bit.”

I roll my eyes. “Agent or not, anyone can see you have a shitload of talent just sitting there not being used. Has Ari tried to—”

“Brexton.” My name is a resigned sigh.

“No, I’m serious. Your arm is remarkable. I was looking at your stats. There’s no way what happened with your dad—”

“And you just made my point. Thanks for a walk down memory lane, but it’s probably best if you get going now.” He pushes up from the table and starts collecting the plates.

I sit there with the taste of rejection in my mouth and a weird panic flickering in my veins. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun or relaxed so easily.

There’s still something about him that makes my heart flutter all these years later.

“Drew. Wait.” I scurry after him and have my hand on his arm the minute he sets the plates down. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to push or prod or anything, I’m just at a total loss why your talent has gone unnoticed and why you seem completely fine with it.”

“Because.” He throws me a lopsided smirk over his shoulder that I don’t quite buy.

“Because why?”

“First, I don’t care if you understand why. And second, I love my life. It’s steady and stable for reasons that are no one’s business but mine. I get to stay in one place, I get to play a game I love, and—”

“But you’re a competitor and competitors like to compete. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand.”

“Stop trying to. I’m not the kid you once knew and you’re not the little girl I used to know either.” His eyes roam up and down the length of my body. “A lot has changed.”

“It has but the other night you implied it’s because of your dad and that—”

He turns abruptly and faces me, hand grabbing my arm in return, and the look on his face stops me cold. We’re in each other’s personal space and, where there was awkwardness, there’s now a strange tension that I’d swear was sexual if his expression wasn’t one of irritation.

“I’ve had fun tonight, Brex. More than I thought I would when you showed up on my porch a few hours ago. I’d like the evening to continue because it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone who I can talk this easily to. You’re witty and intelligent, and God knows how hard that is to find in a conversation these days. The little girl I knew is all grown up and frankly, I’d love to get to know her better . . . but only on one condition.”

“What’s that?” I ask as I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. He smells like soap and sandalwood, and I feel ridiculous focusing on the little things about him—the shadow of his stubble, the ring of dark blue around his irises, the very subtle scar through his eyebrow that I remember was the result of a skateboarding accident gone wrong.

“The past is the past. What happened is what happened. We don’t talk about it, we don’t pick it apart. It’s history for a reason. We don’t try to solve it . . . and we’ll be good. Got it?”

CHAPTER FIVE

DREW

THERE’S DEFIANCE IN HER EYES that is equal parts infuriating and fascinating. Both war through her expression. Both give and take and struggle to subside.

I hate that my next thought is how I want to taste her lips.