Page 89 of The Backup Plan

“Yeah, she says she lived a whole life before having kids, whatever that means.”

I bark out a laugh. This kid’s funny.

“Good for her,” I say. “You should listen to your parents. They have good advice.”

He shrugs like he’s not convinced but then takes a few steps back so that he can straddle the bike, and lift it up, handlebars in hands. “Hey, Lucas?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you played good too. Maybe they’ll let you play more next time.”

“That’s the hope,” I say, feeling oddly proud that a kid just complimented me. It means more to me than he’ll probably ever realize.

“Later, Lucas. Mom’s calling me.”

“Later, Simon,” I call out as he pedals down the sidewalk without a look back, the soft squeak of the old pedals fading until it’s just me again. The truck. The afternoon hum of life around me. The quiet in my head.

And the truth I’ve been avoiding since the parking lot kiss that rocked my fucking world.

A kiss is a kiss is a kiss.

At least that’s what I’ve always thought. But not this time. Not hers.

It was . . . devastating in all the best fucking ways.

And all I want is more. Of her. Of it. Of what might come next.

I close the hood of the truck, wipe my hands on my rag, and lean back against it.

I’ve followed the rules my whole life. Coaches’ rules. Doctors’ rules. My own self-imposed ones.

No distractions.

No complications.

No crossing lines you can’t uncross.

But that kiss already crossed one.

And she sure as shit didn’t stop because she didn’t feel it. She stopped because she did.

I glance over my shoulder to where Simon is standing with his bike next to his mom, gesticulating wildly as if to relay our conversation.

Hell. If I’m already breaking the rules . . .

If I’m already risking something . . .

Then pretending I don’t want her might be the biggest lie I’m telling myself.

Brendan’s right, I didn’t get this far by playing it safe. Didn’t survive thirteen seasons by ignoring what my instincts were screaming at me.

And right now?

They’re insisting that I need to figure out how to convince her of the same. Yes, I took a risk and kissed her. Perhaps it was rash and adrenaline-fueled, but fuck if it didn’t feel right.

She said it was a mistake.

But was it? By the way I can still taste her kiss, I’m not sure it was. Mistakes don’t feel as good as that did.