Page 7 of Hard to Score

YOU’RE GORGEOUS?

I pick up the football from the kicking tee and shuffle back a few feet on my heels, arm cocked back, eyes on the farthest target.

You’re gorgeous?

I release the ball and it sails two feet wide.

“Fuck!” I bark at no one. Steve stops midstride and looks my way before being cut down by my glare. He throws his head back and laughs at my miss, and I grit my teeth.

I’m never distracted. Never. And one fucking chat with Brexton goddamn Kincade and now I’m missing my mark?

What the hell, Bowman?

I run a cadence through my head before grabbing another football and going through my paces again. I hit the top of the target and the ball falls to the side of the catch net instead of inside of it. Fucking missed again.

Why would you say something like that to Bratty Brexton? Why would you tell her that she’s gorgeous after everything that happened? After everything . . .

“Christ.”

I lift my face to the night sky and take a deep breath to clear my head. But all I see are her mile-long legs, knockout body, and stunning face.

It’s true. She is gorgeous. It took me a second to process she really was Brexton Kincade because my memories of her are gangly limbs, a gap-toothed smile, a flat chest, and unruly hair.

It’s almost as if my mind has purposely skipped over that last summer we spent together. Like it never happened.

But that was a fluke.

That was two teenagers caught in a peer-pressure moment.

That was something I’d convinced myself never happened.

Until now.

Now she’s that. All woman, all desirable, all . . . Jesus Christ. This is Brex, we’re talking about here. I can’t be thinking about her like that.

I can’t be wondering how to hit on her when we used to run around like lunatic kids chasing fireflies in Allegheny on family summer vacations.

And I sure as shit can’t act on it.

Not after what happened.

Not after my life was turned upside down at the hands of her father.

And as another pass sails wide, I grunt in frustration.

Get any ideas out of your head, Drew.

You need to stay as far away from her as possible.

Her last name alone should tell you that.

CHAPTER THREE

BREXTON

I FEEL LIKE A STALKER.

Or rather, I am a stalker. How can I not be as I sit across the street from Drew Bowman’s house with the determination I had more than an hour ago now waning as reality sets in. As I wonder what exactly he’s going to think when he opens the door to find me on his doorstep.