Page 69 of Hard to Score

It’s been football. It’s been family. It’s been surviving.

And now it’s fucking her.

Brexton Kincade.

And somehow, I need to make it right again.

I slow my pace at the light and jog in place, waiting for the pedestrian sign to change and traffic to stop.

She thinks I’m embarrassed about her. That’s hilarious.

Doesn’t she realize I lose my fucking mind every time one of the guys makes a comment about her? About the shit they’d love to do to her? Doesn’t she know I’d love to let everyone know she’s mine?

Because she is mine.

Hasn’t she been in some way or another since that first kiss in the Keys?

It’s almost as if seeing her again, being with her again, confirmed something I hadn’t realized I’d been looking for. Brex’s tenacity. Her energy. Her passion for what’s right even when everyone else disagrees. Her dry wit, which so many don’t understand, and the way she snorts when she laughs too hard. It’s damn adorable.

I forgot about her kindness and compassion to anyone and everyone even when they don’t deserve it. And I definitely didn’t deserve it when we were younger, and yet she gave grace to me anyway. But now that I’ve seen her, spent time with her, I remember.

Then there’s the obvious. Her looks. Her beauty. The surface that everyone can see when they don’t have a clue about the shy girl she used to be. How did that girl turn into this incredible woman? The one with such a natural, sexy-as-fuck confidence?

All these things, all these traits, are things I love about her when I’ve found them lacking in others.

In every woman I’ve dated, I’ve been looking for a little piece of her.

“Christ,” I mutter and the lady standing a few feet away from me pushes her stroller a little farther to avoid the crazy man talking to himself.

But I hear Brex’s words.

I think I understand what she means.

And didn’t she state it that very first time? That we’re doing things backward. That you’re supposed to date first and then sleep together after?

Well, maybe it’s time I show her that I heard her.

It’s going to kill me to do it—to deprive myself of her—but maybe it’s time I slow things down.

Maybe it’s time to start things without a drunken kiss.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

BREXTON

Drew: I’m picking you up on Saturday. Be ready at 9 a.m.

I stare at the text and vibrate from the thrill that shoots through me.

It’s been four days since we talked. Four days where I stressed over whether I said too much, pushed too hard, and ultimately scared him off.

I mean, we have only really been together a few times, and yet . . . I think I needed to say what I said. I needed to put my mind at ease and get it off my chest.

And now this? A cryptic text. A supposition that I’m not busy.

I’m not.

But if I were, I think I’d figure out how to be free.