Page 36 of Hard to Score

Drew: So we officially have a dilemma.

Me: ??

Drew: Are you telling me you want to play spin the bottle again, Brex?

Me: Spin it. Spin it.

I can still remember the chant that night. The awareness of having everyone’s eyes on us. The way his lips felt against mine as my heart fell to the ground at his bare feet.

My cheeks hurt from smiling as I hold my phone in my hands, the memory coming back to me. My first kiss. My first love.

“Not in the least, dude . . . We’re friends with a capital F. Believe me.”

“I’m just fucking with you,” Hank says, slapping Drew on the back. He cracks another beer as I slink into the shadows. “I’ll give you a do-over. Who you kissing next, since obviously you need to wash that friend taste out of your mouth?”

Drew laughs. Loudly.

My first heartbreak.

And now, this second chance.

Drew: When I get back, we just might have to see about that. ’Night, Bratty Brex.

Me: ‘Night Dreadful Drew.

But hours later, the ridiculous smile is still on my lips and I’m ignoring every part of me that’s saying I need to slow everything about my thought process down.

It’s hard, though.

So very hard.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DREW

THE ROAR OF THE CROWD reverberates in my chest. Their cheers come together and create a wall of white noise that makes it impossible for the offense to hear Hobbs’s call.

My body vibrates with anticipation I haven’t felt in forever.

One that’s bone-deep, unmistakable, and that has been lost behind apathy I refused to acknowledge.

Until now.

I look at you and see one of the most gifted and talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen but the man beneath is too goddamn afraid to step into the limelight.

Brexton’s words are on repeat in my head as I watch Hobbs jog back with his arm cocked, and struggle to find someone open to throw it to. Even though he throws it away, I can see the play clearly in my mind. If he had scrambled right, it would have bought a second for Grinkleman to be where he needed to catch the pass and gain ten yards.

Easy to say from the sidelines. Even harder to do under pressure with huge linemen bearing down on you . . . and yet I know I could have made that play.

I grimace as Justin airmails another pass as they blitz him. Klaus, the offensive coordinator, glances back at me, just like he does every game Hobbs is struggling, and gives me the you ready to go in look.

But I no longer get excited like I used to. He can give me that look all he wants. I’m never going in.

At least that’s what I’ve always thought, but fuck if Brexton’s vote of confidence doesn’t have me dreaming bigger again.

Have I been sitting on my ass—resting on my laurels—because I’d accepted a fate that wasn’t mine to accept?

I have my reasons for not rocking the boat, I sure as fuck do, but when did I stop fighting to play the game I love on my terms—on the field?