by K. Bromberg
“Just what?”
When did she go from being Bratty Brex to Beautiful Brex? How did I not notice?
“Let’s go, man. Time’s a-wasting. Or,” he says with a dramatic pause, “are you two too chicken to follow through?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say and then step forward to stop my overthinking and press my lips to hers.
Holy shit.
I’ve kissed a lot of girls—pecks on the lips, tongue action, you name it—but there’s something about when my lips meet hers, when our tongues touch, when her fingers tense against my chest, that makes every part of me feel like I just touched a live wire.
I jolt back, electrified with a desire I don’t quite understand yet that’s edged with anger, and stare at her.
“What?” she whispers as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, confusion in her eyes.
I just stare at her. At the reflection of the fire on her lip gloss. At the doe-eyed look she’s giving me. At how her mouth parts and her breath seems a little faster—kind of like how mine is—and I wonder why I feel so lightheaded all of a sudden, why my stomach suddenly feels like it’s tied in knots.
“Holy crap, everyone,” Hank shouts, stopping the hooting and hollering I didn’t even hear. I snap my head his way, suddenly aware of everyone around us. “I do believe that Drew and Brexton here already have something going on. Do you two sneak into each other’s beds at night when your mommies and daddies fall asleep? Do you—”
“Cut the crap, Hank.” It has to be the beer I’ve drank. “I assure you, we are only friends,” I say with as much conviction as possible.
Definitely the beer.
“Friends with benefits,” he shouts and everyone starts laughing. I glance at Brexton, who steps back into the shadows away from the fire.
If I look at her, he’ll think I’m lying, but that wounded expression on her face tells me she’s upset.
“Not in the least, dude.”
“So then why aren’t you taking your five minutes behind the Coconut Shack with her?” he taunts.
“No thanks. We’re friends with a capital F. Believe me.”
“I’m just fucking with you,” Hank says as he slaps me on the back and cracks another beer. “I’ll give you a do-over. Who you kissing next, since obviously you need to wash that friend taste out of your mouth?”
I laugh and go along with the guys but when I look back over my shoulder, Brexton is gone, and I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.
BREXTON
Drew: So about last night . . .
I BREATHE A SIGH OF relief at the sight of it. The sad fact is it’s been a day since Jules and Archer’s wedding and I’m stuck in a state of limbo. The kind where you wonder how much time you should let pass before you call back the guy who just left you a message for the first time.
To know if he remembers what happened or regrets what happened or anywhere in between.
But he texted.
And at least that’s a start.
The problem, now that he has? I’m stuck staring at it and trying to not overthink how exactly I should respond.
Do I just come out and scream from the rooftops that it’s about damn time for him to communicate or do I play it low-key cool?
I take a deep breath and type.
Me: You mean the part where you pretended to be an airplane? That part?
Drew: Yes. That. Exactly.
Me: lol.
Drew: I’m sorry about everything.
Me: Everything?
Drew: The kissing you part.
My heart falls. I stare at the blinking cursor and hate how everything, when it comes to him, seems to be a mindfuck. Two steps forward and then ten steps back.
I bite my lip and wonder how I should respond. Because I have to respond.
What’s the worst that can happen? I say what I really want to say and he either gets spooked by it or welcomes it? Either way, I’ve gone almost ten years without crossing his path, so I’m sure if this is a disaster, I can figure a way to avoid him for the next ten.
What is it you want though, Brexton? You’ve sworn off men and relationships. You’ve promised yourself that you’re not going to fall for anyone anytime soon.
And now you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place and wanting that hard place to be one Drew Bowman.
I reread our texts again, teeth worrying my bottom lip, and wonder if he’s on the other end feeling the same way. Wondering how he’s in this situation with an old family friend from his past.
Maybe I just need to get him out of my system. If I fulfill my unrequited teenage fantasies—but now on a more grown-up scale—perhaps the mystery would be gone and there’d be nothing between us.
I poise my fingers to type, the angel and devil on my shoulders having a field day in their spotlight.
I suck in a breath and hit send. You only live once, right?
Me: What if I’m not sorry, though?
I squeal and put my face in my hands like a teenager who can’t believe she just said or did something in front of the most popular kid in high school . . . and I wait for him to respond.
The three dots blink slowly on the screen for some time as he types, while I’m silently freaking out on my end.
Drew: Is this coming from Bratty Brexton or Gorgeous Brexton?
Thump. My heart is ridiculously influenced, and I don’t care that it is in this simple moment.
Me: Both.
Drew: It can only be from one or the other. Pick.
Me: The latter.
Drew: Say it. Own it. It’s true. I’m waiting.
Me: Gorgeous Brexton.
Drew: So we officially have a dilemma.
Me: ??
Drew: Are you telling me you want to play spin the bottle again, Brex?
Me: Spin it. Spin it.
I can still remember the chant that night. The awareness of having everyone’s eyes on us. The way his lips felt against mine as my heart fell to the ground at his bare feet.
My cheeks hurt from smiling as I hold my phone in my hands, the memory coming back to me. My first kiss. My first love.
“Not in the least, dude . . . We’re friends with a capital F. Believe me.”
“I’m just fucking with you,” Hank says, slapping Drew on the back. He cracks another beer as I slink into the shadows. “I’ll give you a do-over. Who you kissing next, since obviously you need to wash that friend taste out of your mouth?”
Drew laughs. Loudly.
My first heartbreak.
And now, this second chance.
Drew: When I get back, we just might have to see about that. ’Night, Bratty Brex.
Me: ‘Night Dreadful Drew.
But hours later, the ridiculous smile is still on my lips and I’m ignoring every part of me that’s saying I need to slow everything about my thought process down.
It’s hard, though.
So very hard.
DREW
THE ROAR OF THE CROWD reverberates in my chest. Their cheers come together and create a wall of white noise that makes it impossible for the offense to hear Hobbs’s call.
My body vibrates with anticipation I haven’t felt in forever.
One that’s bone-deep, unmistakable, and that has been lost behind apathy I refused to acknowledge.
Until now.
I look at you and see one of the most gifted and talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen but the man beneath is too goddamn afraid to step into the limelight.
Brexton’s words are on repeat in my head as I watch Hobbs jog back with his arm cocked, and struggle to find someone open to throw it to. Even though he throws it away, I can see the play clearly in my mind. If he had scrambled right, it would have bought a second for Grinkleman to be where he needed to catch the pass and gain ten yards.
Easy to say from the sidelines. Even harder to do under pressure with huge linemen bearing down on you . . . and yet I know I could have made that play.
I grimace as
Justin airmails another pass as they blitz him. Klaus, the offensive coordinator, glances back at me, just like he does every game Hobbs is struggling, and gives me the you ready to go in look.
But I no longer get excited like I used to. He can give me that look all he wants. I’m never going in.
At least that’s what I’ve always thought, but fuck if Brexton’s vote of confidence doesn’t have me dreaming bigger again.
Have I been sitting on my ass—resting on my laurels—because I’d accepted a fate that wasn’t mine to accept?
I have my reasons for not rocking the boat, I sure as fuck do, but when did I stop fighting to play the game I love on my terms—on the field?
Klaus throws his clipboard at the ground, and then his headset, as Hobbs’s next throw is intercepted. The Lions run it all the way down the field for a touchdown.
And four minutes later as the clock ticks below the twenty-second mark and they’re still in possession of the ball, they win the game.
“Tough game out there today,” I say as I walk by Hobbs. His head is down, his forearms are braced on his thighs, and his shoulders are sagging in defeat.
“Fucking bullshit is what it is.”
I nod and take a seat in front of my locker, waiting for the press to clear. “It happens. You can’t be a hero every game.”
“Says who? Says a guy who’s played second string his whole career? Rumors are you’d throw a game just like your old man did, but since I don’t see you touching the field any time soon, I’m not sure why people even talk about you anymore.”
“I warned you to never say that to me again.” Fury is ripe as I kick his feet farther apart. His head yanks up in shock, and I’m right there in his face. My dad may be too much of a pussy to set people straight but I sure as shit will. “This is coming from a snot-nosed rookie with less than eighteen months in this league.” I see the rest of the guys in the locker room take a step forward as they wonder how far I’m going to take this.
It takes a lot for me to lose my cool—I’ve been on this team long enough for them to know this—but fuck if I’m not on edge right now. I don’t want to put up with this shit.
Besides, Hobbs has a history of lashing out—at me, at others—every time he doesn’t live up to his own hype and I’m sure as fuck not going to take his shit. Not with my frustration mounting and with him playing the whole game after making errors left and right.
“Back the fuck off.”
“I’m doing you a favor and ignoring what you said.” I fist my hand in his shirt and yank him up to a standing position. “I’m going to chalk it up to you being too young and too stupid to realize it doesn’t matter if a fucking meteorite hits the field and causes you to lose, that you are the goddamn leader of this team and so you take responsibility for the loss.” I give him a shake. “You’re good, Hobbs. Maybe too good for your own damn good, but you keep this shit up and no one’s going to want to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Lose with grace. Win with humility.”
I push him back down, shake my head, and point to all of our teammates standing around in various states of undress watching us. “You owe them all an apology. It’s their respect you need to earn before anybody will give you theirs.”
And without another word, I storm out of the locker room and back onto the field.
The custodians are busy cleaning up the mess the fifty thousand fans left behind when I hit the turf. There are some media still shooting the shit. There are people when I don’t want there to be people, but there is no practice field here for me to go to and I sure as shit am not going back into the locker room.
So I glance around for Raptors’ personnel.
I ask them to find Steve on their radio for me.
I tell him I’m ready to run my drills.
BREXTON
THE NEW YORK RAPTORS ARE on the field in front of me. They’re running drill after drill with both Justin and Drew taking their turns throwing passes. Coaches congregate in the center and talk about who knows what.
The sounds of helmets knocking and cadences being called out fill the air as I shift on my feet and take it all in.
If anyone asks me, I’m here for my client, Whittier. He’s a punt receiver currently having some issues with the special teams coordinator, and I’m here to smooth things over.
In my head though, I’m still trying to get over that kiss from Drew the other night, our flirty texts, and possibly, maybe, I’m a little desperate to see him again.
“Did you come to see how being an agent is done?” a voice says to my right. I don’t turn to show the owner of the voice, Finn Sanderson, an iota of interest.
“Look what crawled out of the gutter and decided to see the light of day?” I say in the cheeriest of voices as in my periphery, I see him step beside me.
“What is it about you Kincade women, huh? Is hostility a family trait?”
“It goes hand in hand with our greatness.” I slide a glance his way and smile.
“Greatness, huh?” He chuckles. “It must be hard at night to fall asleep with all of those lies you tell yourself running around in your head.”
“You mean kind of like the ones you tell your clients?” I shift so I face him.
“You’d think this schtick would get old. Do the four of you practice in your weekly office meeting? Is there a prize that goes to the sister who gets to use it that week?” His voice is sarcastic yet playful.
Kind of how it always is between us.
Do I like the douchebag? Not really. But he does provide entertainment from time to time. I’ll give him that much. I still think he’s a total asshole for what he did to Chase, but if she’s over it, then I am too.
“Yes, that’s exactly right, so thanks for showing up to let me win this week’s contest.”
“Glad to be of service,” he murmurs before we both fall silent for a beat as the team runs another series of drills, each of the three quarterbacks getting a chance to show off their talents. “I’m assuming you’re here for Whittier?”
“News travels fast.”
“No news. Just assumptions after that fight he got in with the coordinator at the last game. Fighting with your coach is never a good thing.”
“That’s one thing we can agree on.”
We stop talking as a crowd of players comes closer. Is it stupid that my stomach flip-flops when I see Drew in the group? I try to remain nonchalant behind my sunglasses, but there is the slightest of moments when Drew is drinking his water that he looks straight at me and grins. It has that part-smirk, part-knowing feel to it that says he knows what my lips taste like. He knows that we have a secret.
He’s thinking about our kiss too.
And it’s everything I need to know to put my restless mind—and heart—at ease.
“So what are you going to do about him?” Finn asks with a slight lift of his chin toward Whittier since players are still nearby. “Trade him? Coddle him? Tell him to suck it up?”
“All of the above?” I shrug. “It depends. I have meetings with Los Angeles and they’re interested in him. From what I hear, they’re going through a rebuilding year so they’re hungry for a lot of positions right now. A QB, some defensive backs”—I gesture to the players—“O-line. So maybe I’ll feel out what management here at the Raptors thinks and go from there.”
“Huh,” he says and mimics my posture with his arms crossed. “I was convinced you were here to steal one of my clients. You’re a Kincade. There’s always an ulterior motive with you guys when it comes to me.”
I roll my eyes and laugh, but refuse to admit that he’s right. “The funny thing, Sanderson? Even though you’re typically an asshole and your manners need a lot of work, I don’t mind you as much as everyone else does. In fact, I look forward to these bantering sessions to keep my comeback game in check.”
“Is that cold heart of yours thawing some?” He chuckles. “Or is this your way of trying to thaw mine so you can steal one of my clients?”
“You do have eight or nine clients on this team. Are you really going to miss any if I steal one?” I ask playfully.
“I can draw some conclusions.”
“Draw away.” Drew makes a flawless pass that is so pretty it’s ridiculous. God, he’s sexy when he does that. Hobbs throws a second and it’s just as pretty, but not as perfectly placed.
“It’s Hobbs,” he says after a beat. “That would be the biggest bang for your buck. He’s a rising star, hotshot rookie who everyone is talking about. If you were a smart agent, that’s where you would look.”
“Are you trying to unload him?” I ask through a laugh. “Because that sounded like a sales pitch if ever I heard one. What you forgot to add is that he’s young and cocky and you’re not doing your job properly as his agent to explain to him this is a game of longevity versus a balls-to-the-wall mentality.”
“See? That’s where we differ in our thought process. I say take all you can get while you can get it. Look at Bowman. He’s been doing this how long and rarely touches the field. Most guys would rather have their moments short and glorious instead of long and hidden in the shadows.”
“He’s good though,” I murmur as he connects another flawless pass.
“He’s incredible,” Finn agrees.
High praise coming from another agent. Praise that I agree with. It just seems so wrong that Drew isn’t even a starter.
“Why doesn’t he ever get a chance, Finn?” I speak my thoughts out loud. Kiss or no kiss, I can be objective when it comes to the amount of skill Drew has.
“He did have the chance and was doing great with the Tigers. At the beginning of his second season, he was in a game where he crashed hard. I mean, he didn’t look like the same player out there. Passes wide, balls dropped. He was playing under the name Drew Hemmings—his grandmother’s maiden name—but someone made the connection to his dad somehow. Fucking bloodhounds. They started posting shit on social media, hinting that he was trying to throw the game like his old man had. It caused quite the controversy at the time.”