Hard to Score Page 3

  “Very funny.” I snort.

  “Then come in.”

  Every part of my teenage heart flutters when he flashes me a grin as I walk past him and into his house. I don’t know what to think other than the house fits him. Or at least, what I think would fit him despite not really knowing him. It’s an open floor plan flooded with a ton of natural light against neutral walls with accent colors of grays and blues. While it looks like someone with a keen eye decorated it, each and every room I pass as I follow him to the kitchen looks comfortable and lived in.

  I study the muscles in his back as he moves in front of me. His broad shoulders. His trim waist. I admire a well-trained physique like the next woman, but just like when I was a teenager, there is something about Drew that makes me want to sit and stare.

  That makes me want to follow when I am definitely not a follower.

  We move into the kitchen area. While it’s large in size, there’s an understated elegance to it that masks the ridiculously expensive appliances and cabinets. One that doesn’t make you feel weird pulling up a barstool for fear you might ding or scratch something.

  “I was just about to have another beer,” Drew says as he rounds the island. “Would you like one or maybe a glass of wine? I have some red and some white. Don’t ask me what kind though or if it’s good because it’s simply on hand in case someone else wants some.” So he entertains enough to have wine he doesn’t drink on hand. Who though? The team? Women?

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “Always.”

  “I’ll have a beer. Whatever you’re drinking.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Women who wear heels as high as the ones you were wearing the other night usually don’t opt for a bottle of beer.”

  He noticed the heels I was wearing. Let’s hope he also took note of the long, shapely legs they were attached to.

  “I’m far from typical, Drew.”

  He stops mid-motion and meets my eyes. There’s a quick flash of surprise in his eyes that stutters his smile, and I can’t say that I mind it. “Good to know,” he murmurs as he opens the refrigerator door and pulls out two bottles of a particularly good IPA, opens a bottle, and then slides it across the counter to me.

  “Thank you,” I say as I turn to track him when he walks over to a huge, gray leather couch, grabs the T-shirt hanging off the back of it, and slips it over his head.

  I want to groan in protest and tell him it doesn’t bother me that he’s shirtless, but that would sound quite weird.

  So I force myself to appreciate the way the plain black shirt stretches over his body and smile when he turns to face me. Our eyes meet as he leans his butt against the back of the couch.

  “So you want to catch up, talk about old times . . . yet you’re not talking.”

  “It’s only been a few minutes.”

  “So you need to get warmed up?” He nods. “Okay. You pretend you know what you’re going to say, and in the meantime, I’m going to throw the meat on. Sound like a plan?” His chuckle should irritate me but it does quite the opposite.

  My sigh fills the space. “I didn’t mean for this to be awkward.”

  “It’s not. But it’s kind of like a first date in a sense. We don’t know much about each other and what we do know isn’t exactly who we are now . . . so we’ll talk, we’ll drink, we’ll eat . . . and we’ll get to know each other.”

  A first date?

  In that case . . . and then I shake my head at my own stupidity for taking him so literally.

  There’s an easy charm about Drew I didn’t expect and simultaneously appreciate as I follow him out a pair of French doors into his backyard. Like his house, the backyard is grand but welcoming. A covered patio sits apart from the house with what looks like a whole second kitchen, complete with a barbeque, television, sink, and refrigerator. There is a large patch of grass with some elaborate stonework that matches the front of the house, which leads to what appears to be a spa.

  “It’s a little slice of heaven out here,” I murmur.

  The steaks sizzle as he puts them on the grill. “A lot of the guys laugh at me for not living in the city, but”—he motions to the backyard—“it’s nice to just be away from it all. To feel normal. Even if I feel like I’m never home.”

  “Whereas I live in the city and there are so many nights I’d love to be able to walk out my back door and have all of this to relax and enjoy. Rooftops are great for views of the city but there is no peace and quiet like there is here.”

  “You never left?” he asks and I turn to find him studying me.

  “For college, yes. But my family is here. My job. I travel a lot because of it, but there’s nothing quite like Manhattan.”

  He purses his lips. “We moved . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence as he averts his eyes and turns to check on the meat he just put on. “I was first drafted to Tennessee and was contracted there for the first two years. Did one year down in Florida. Now I’ve been back here for the last four and hopefully will continue to be.”

  “So you do like it here then? In New York?”

  He eyes me almost warily before he nods. “I do, yes.”

  I hold my face up to the late afternoon sun and close my eyes. “Every time I say I’m sick of it, I travel for work and realize how much I can’t wait to get back home to it.”

  “Hmm,” he says, and then he falls silent. I watch him for a few moments as he sprays water on the grill to calm the flame and then moves them to the other side of the grill.

  I’m not sure exactly how I expected this to go so I have no stick to measure it against, but a part of me feels like it’s failing. The other part of me thinks the fact that we can do comfortable silence well is a good thing.

  “Remember that time when—”

  “The stingrays!” he says.

  “Yes!” I shout as we both laugh. I certainly notice that he completed my thought for me.

  “There was that crazy lady screaming every time one came near her even though we were there in—where were we?”

  “Grand Cayman.”

  “Yes. That’s right. It was Grand Cayman and we took that boat out to that shoal in the ocean where there are tons of them.”

  “But that lady,” I say with a quick shake of my head. “Man, she screamed as if a great white shark was eating her any time a ray came within ten feet of her.”

  “That was a great trip. So many fun memories. Before everything changed.”

  I finish the sip of my beer, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, but not wanting to ruin the mood. But just when I start to speak, he changes the subject.

  “Remember when we rented that place down in the Florida Keys?” he asks.

  How could I not?

  I was fifteen and when the Bowmans showed up at the house we’d all rented, something had shifted. I hadn’t seen Drew in almost a year but this time when he walked into the house with board shorts hung low on his hips, his skin tanned and chest bared, I realized he wasn’t a little kid anymore.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t a clumsy little girl.

  I’d spent those whole two weeks hoping he’d notice me. Every time he told his parents he was going to go off and explore, I prayed he’d ask me to come along. And the one time I caught him kissing the local girl he’d met on the beach, I was crushed it wasn’t me.

  So those last few nights I maneuvered myself any way I could to be in his path, even if it meant stepping out of my comfort zone and into a situation that left me in tears.

  Something had shifted between us that summer—hormones, puberty, life—but it was only one-sided.

  Our families parted ways at the end of that trip. I was in love and he didn’t have a clue.

  “I do. I seem to remember you having a different girl following you back to the house every night. You’d sit on the porch and do who knows what with them until your mom would make you come inside.”

  “Oh, to be a teenager and carefree again.”

&n
bsp; I stare at him, almost daring him to meet my eyes to see if he remembered that night or not.

  Probably not.

  “What was it called? Forced family fun?” I ask and smile.

  “FFF.” He chuckles. “I’d forgotten that term.”

  “Your sister made it up, didn’t she?” I ask, remembering the aloof roll of her eyes when we had to all play UNO together one night. But I’m so caught up in the memory that I almost miss the shadow that drifts through his expression.

  “Maggie did. And for the record,” he says as he checks the meat, “forced or not, I have a hell of a lot of awesome memories from when our families vacationed together.”

  BREXTON

  DREW’S LAUGHTER RINGS OUT, DROWNING out the sound of crickets and a motorcycle revving somewhere down the street. Evening has taken hold as we sit across from each other, empty plates now pushed to the side with several empty beer bottles beside them, and a whole host of laughter and memories shared between us.

  He’s obviously more than easy on the eyes. I knew that when I knocked on his door. What I didn’t expect was to be charmed by his personality as well. What I never considered was that spending time with him would spark something more than that teenage crush.

  Not in a million years.

  But it has.

  Sitting across from him, his easy smile, and his incredible sense of humor, has only made him more attractive to me.

  But I’ve sworn off men. Too much heartbreak and not enough heart filling.

  Keep telling yourself that, Brex.

  “So after the Olympic trials, what happened?” he asks.

  I shrug with a frustration I still feel all these years later. “I blew out my knee the first day at the Olympic Village. The turf had a tear in it that snagged my cleat, and down I went.”

  “You must have been heartbroken.”

  “To put it mildly. But I’m lucky. So many athletes spend their lives competing and don’t have anything to fall back on. I had my degree, and when doctors told me that if I played field hockey again, I had a chance of ruining my knee forever, I made the decision to have a real life.”

  “Do you miss it?” he asks.

  I angle my head and stare at him as I think it over. “I miss the competition and that anticipation in the air before a game. I miss the smell of a real grass field just after it’s been mowed, and knowing I was part of a team . . . but I have no complaints when it comes to my life now.”

  He twists his lips and stares at me, eyes growing darker as they narrow in thought.

  “What is it, Drew?”

  “So you’re after Justin, then?” he asks.

  “That’s who I’ve been tasked to acquire, yes.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “Because it’s the name of the game in this business.” My answer is lame, but it’s a difficult thing to answer. Not to mention, I don’t want to have to explain anything about rival agent Finn Sanderson and our family pact to take back some of the clients he’s stolen from us over the past few years.

  “Big-ticket players also come with big-ticket headaches.”

  “I won’t argue with you there.” I take another sip of my beer.

  “Just be careful with him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just be careful.” He shrugs with his hands and meets my eyes. “Obviously you’re working with Kincade,” he continues, speaking of Kincade Sports Management.

  It’s the first time either of us has delved into this realm. We’ve spoken about past family vacations, about college years, about the mundane, but we’ve avoided—perhaps purposely—what happened and the current day.

  But now he went there and I have no choice but to respond.

  “Yes. We all work there.” I lean back in my chair.

  He falls silent and takes a sip of his beer, but his eyes stay fixed on mine, almost as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Is that why you’re here, Brex? To recruit me? Because if it is, you can save your breath. I’m not going to switch agencies.” He leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. “And if that is the reason, it’s pretty shitty to come here under the guise of catching up only to know you want something from me.”

  “Drew. That’s not . . .” I bark out an uncomfortable laugh. “I should be offended by your question but I understand where you’re coming from. Yes, I’m an agent, but I’m not so conniving that I’d come to your house, get you buzzed, and then try to sell you why your agent is doing you no favors whatsoever.”

  “I think you just kind of tried to.” He laughs and holds up his thumb and forefinger a little bit apart. “Just a little bit.”

  I roll my eyes. “Agent or not, anyone can see you have a shitload of talent just sitting there not being used. Has Ari tried to—”

  “Brexton.” My name is a resigned sigh.

  “No, I’m serious. Your arm is remarkable. I was looking at your stats. There’s no way what happened with your dad—”

  “And you just made my point. Thanks for a walk down memory lane, but it’s probably best if you get going now.” He pushes up from the table and starts collecting the plates.

  I sit there with the taste of rejection in my mouth and a weird panic flickering in my veins. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun or relaxed so easily.

  There’s still something about him that makes my heart flutter all these years later.

  “Drew. Wait.” I scurry after him and have my hand on his arm the minute he sets the plates down. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to push or prod or anything, I’m just at a total loss why your talent has gone unnoticed and why you seem completely fine with it.”

  “Because.” He throws me a lopsided smirk over his shoulder that I don’t quite buy.

  “Because why?”

  “First, I don’t care if you understand why. And second, I love my life. It’s steady and stable for reasons that are no one’s business but mine. I get to stay in one place, I get to play a game I love, and—”

  “But you’re a competitor and competitors like to compete. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand.”

  “Stop trying to. I’m not the kid you once knew and you’re not the little girl I used to know either.” His eyes roam up and down the length of my body. “A lot has changed.”

  “It has but the other night you implied it’s because of your dad and that—”

  He turns abruptly and faces me, hand grabbing my arm in return, and the look on his face stops me cold. We’re in each other’s personal space and, where there was awkwardness, there’s now a strange tension that I’d swear was sexual if his expression wasn’t one of irritation.

  “I’ve had fun tonight, Brex. More than I thought I would when you showed up on my porch a few hours ago. I’d like the evening to continue because it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone who I can talk this easily to. You’re witty and intelligent, and God knows how hard that is to find in a conversation these days. The little girl I knew is all grown up and frankly, I’d love to get to know her better . . . but only on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” I ask as I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. He smells like soap and sandalwood, and I feel ridiculous focusing on the little things about him—the shadow of his stubble, the ring of dark blue around his irises, the very subtle scar through his eyebrow that I remember was the result of a skateboarding accident gone wrong.

  “The past is the past. What happened is what happened. We don’t talk about it, we don’t pick it apart. It’s history for a reason. We don’t try to solve it . . . and we’ll be good. Got it?”

  DREW

  THERE’S DEFIANCE IN HER EYES that is equal parts infuriating and fascinating. Both war through her expression. Both give and take and struggle to subside.

  I hate that my next thought is how I want to taste her lips.

  And then my next after is how can that even cross my mind?

  How can I look at her a
nd want her, knowing part of my fate is because of that last name she has?

  “Brex?” I ask.

  Her breath is shaky. Hesitant. Affected. That last part is such a turn-on even when I swear to fucking God I don’t want it to be.

  “Deal,” she murmurs, but I don’t let go of her arm, and she doesn’t step back out of my space.

  Indecision lingers where normally I would dive right in. That history I told her to forget clouds my mind and sidetracks the thoughts I’d love to act on.

  “Brexton.” Her name is a whisper laden with intention.

  Seconds feel like minutes and each breath is like another push of momentum to kiss her. The woman I shouldn’t want.

  The woman I am already thinking about having.

  We jolt apart at the sound of the doorbell followed a second later by pounding on the door. It’s rapid and insistent, and my heart drops into my stomach because I know that knock.

  I know that fervor.

  Not now.

  Not fucking now.

  “I need to get that.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. It’s . . . why don’t you go out back and grab another beer.”

  Confused eyes meet mine but a soft smile warms them. “Sure.”

  I wait for her to go out the back door before I head toward the intermittent yet demanding knocking. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for what I’ll find when I open the door this time.

  But it doesn’t matter how much I prepare, I’m still knocked on my ass when I swing the door open and find my sister standing there, the visual reminder of the rippled effects of the betrayal. What Brex’s father did to my family. The toll. How Brex’s dad hurt us all.

  Like my younger sister, Maggie, standing here. Her eyes are hollow, her collarbone is poking through whatever you call what she’s wearing, and her body twitches in a way that says she’s coming down from whatever withdrawal she seems to be riding today.

  But it won’t last long.

  It never does.