Page 88 of The Backup Plan

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says like a twenty-year-old adult mulling over the conversation. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” I say and set the wrench down.

“Do you ever get nervous?”

The question lands harder than it should, because I never used to. But now? “Before games?”

He nods. “Before . . . stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Anything really. Before games. Before interviews. Before flying to games.”

I lean back against the truck, one knee up with my foot resting on the bumper behind me. “Yeah. All the time.”

“But you still do it?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Because not doing it feels worse?

I don’t give that response despite it being my gut reflex. Instead, I say, “Because sometimes wanting something doesn’t go away just because you’re scared.”

He bites his bottom lip, clearly thinking about it. “My dad says if something’s hard, it’s usually worth doing.”

Smart kid. Or smart dad.

“He’s probably right,” I say.

He nods, and then I can see him gaining the courage to ask the next question. “You ever want something you’re not supposed to have?”

My laugh is a chord of disbelief as Emery flashes in my mind. I swallow. “Yeah. More than a few times. Should I ask what we’re talking about here?”

“Nothing specific. Just asking questions so I can use the answers later if I need them.”

This kid, man. He’s adorable with his dark curly hair and the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“If you need them later, huh?”

“Yep. If you store knowledge, then you get to keep it for when it’s needed.”

“Another thing your dad taught you?”

“Nah, this one is my mom.” He angles his head to the side. “So, what do you do when you want something you’re not supposed to have?”

I glance back at the engine. At my hands. At the grease under my fingernails. At the way I keep trying to fix things that aren’t actually broken.

“I try to convince myself I don’t want it,” I say finally and ignore the way Emery and that goddamn kiss pops into my head. The way she tasted. The way she felt. The way I keep telling myself that had to be enough when I know damn well, it fucking isn’t.

“Does that work for you?”

I shake my head. “Not really,” I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

He seems satisfied with that answer, like it confirms something he already suspected. “My mom says pretending doesn’t make stuff go away. It just makes it louder in your head.”

“Your mom is a wise woman.” How many times have I stood at Emery’s door with my fist raised to knock since that kiss and then backed away? How many times have I stared across the PT room to where she’s speaking with Grant or Coach, those sexy-as-fuck glasses perched on her nose as she explains something to them?