Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  All these things, all these traits, are things I love about her when I’ve found them lacking in others.

  In every woman I’ve dated, I’ve been looking for a little piece of her.

  “Christ,” I mutter and the lady standing a few feet away from me pushes her stroller a little farther to avoid the crazy man talking to himself.

  But I hear Brex’s words.

  I think I understand what she means.

  And didn’t she state it that very first time? That we’re doing things backward. That you’re supposed to date first and then sleep together after?

  Well, maybe it’s time I show her that I heard her.

  It’s going to kill me to do it—to deprive myself of her—but maybe it’s time I slow things down.

  Maybe it’s time to start things without a drunken kiss.

  BREXTON

  Drew: I’m picking you up on Saturday. Be ready at 9 a.m.

  I stare at the text and vibrate from the thrill that shoots through me.

  It’s been four days since we talked. Four days where I stressed over whether I said too much, pushed too hard, and ultimately scared him off.

  I mean, we have only really been together a few times, and yet . . . I think I needed to say what I said. I needed to put my mind at ease and get it off my chest.

  And now this? A cryptic text. A supposition that I’m not busy.

  I’m not.

  But if I were, I think I’d figure out how to be free.

  My grin is huge when I pick up my phone to answer.

  Me: A little demanding, are we?

  Drew: Someone has to take charge here. Be ready at 9. Plan to be gone all day.

  Me: Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?

  Drew: No.

  Me: How to dress?

  Drew: A swimsuit. A jacket. We’ll be outdoors.

  Me: Anything else?

  Drew: I can’t wait to spend the day with you.

  And if the date wasn’t enough, that last line right there was.

  I feel like a sap as I sit there and stare at it for way longer than I should, but I don’t care. We’re going on a date, and the giddy female in me can’t wait.

  BREXTON

  11 years earlier

  “THAT’S SO FUCKING LAME,” DREW throws his hand up, and Dekker and I glance at each other and roll our eyes.

  The fuck thing is new this trip. Apparently, Drew is a teenager now and that means he thinks he’s cool if he says fuck a lot.

  Dekker has tried it a time or two but then looks around quickly. Mom and Dad would kill us if they caught us saying it.

  “What is?” Dekker asks as she props her feet up on the table and grabs a handful of popcorn, dropping some on the floor as she does.

  “Look at that poor sap.” He points to the college football game on the TV.

  “Who? The guy who just threw that Hail Mary for a touchdown?” Dekker asks with a laugh. “You mean, that one?”

  “That’s beside the point,” Drew says as he flops down on the couch.

  “What about him?” I ask, desperate to be in any part of this conversation, because Drew might have to take notice of me. I mean, Dekker is sitting on the couch a foot from him with her long legs and almost boobs, while I sit over here looking like a carpenter’s dream—flat as a board and rail straight.

  “There is no way on God’s green earth you’d catch me putting some girl’s initials on my helmet like that QB has. Such a sap.”

  We all look at the screen and wait for the quarterback to be shown again. And when he is, sure enough there is a “K J” on the back of his helmet.

  “Maybe he loves her,” I say.

  Drew snorts. “There is no place for that kind of love on the football field.”

  “Hold on a second,” Dekker says in her overdramatic fashion with hands gesticulating as she turns to face Drew. “How can you say that?”

  “Easy. I open my mouth and words come out,” Drew says.

  “You’re not funny,” Dekker counters.

  “Yes, I am.” Drew pops some popcorn in his mouth and chews annoyingly to irritate us.

  “Aren’t you the one who had GH painted on your hand for your homecoming game last month?” she asks.

  “No. Never,” he says, eyes widening.

  “That’s such crap. Don’t lie. I saw it on your social media. You had a GH for Ginnie Huber on your hand.”

  “I did not.” Drew’s voice rises in pitch and then cracks, and we all snicker.

  “Yes, you did.” Dekker throws a piece of popcorn at him. “Who’s the sap now, huh?”

  “It’s totally different.”

  “How so?”

  “She asked me to put it there. It was homecoming. All the football players did it.”

  “That’s the biggest crock of shit,” Dekker says and then glances around quickly as if my parents were magically in the room . . . when we can see them in the backyard through the windows. “None of the other players had initials on their hands. I looked.”

  “You stalked my football team’s pictures?”

  “I did, and I didn’t see a single one,” she says, her grin widening.

  “Well, you didn’t look hard enough,” Drew says.

  “So you’re telling me that out of the blue, Ginnie Huber asked you to write GH on your hand and you just decided to go along with it?”

  “I said it was a long story.”

  “No, you said it was a homecoming thing. Which is it?” Dekker crosses her arms over her chest, more than thrilled to catch perfect Drew in a lie. “Because it sounds like the kind of story where you thought if you wrote GH on your hand then you were going to make it past first base after the game.”

  “I don’t need initials to get past first base,” Drew brags and a tiny piece of my heart breaks as I stare at him, wishing I’d get the chance at first base with him.

  He’s so cute. His hair is longer this trip so that it curls a little over his ears, but his body is changing. Or maybe it’s all the weights he’s lifting for football, because he definitely has muscles now. He catches me staring and lifts his eyebrows as if I’m in on this harassing that Dekker is handing him.

  I just shake my head and avert my eyes back to the game. Talk about lame, Brex. Staring? And getting caught? You’re such a dork.

  “When did you become so arrogant?” Dekk asks.

  “About the time you became so lame,” he says.

  “Lame? You’re the one making fun of that player for doing it.” She points to the television. “What’s next? Are you going to put a GH on the back of your helmet too so the whole school knows you’ve done the deed with Ginnie?”

  Dekker’s words make me wince. The last thing I want to think about is Drew doing anything with anyone else. I blush.

  “Like I’d ever put that shit on my helmet.” He snorts and crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance.

  “Not even if you were madly in love?” she asks.

  “Nope,” he says and emits an exasperated sigh.

  “You’re telling me if it was the only way to profess your undying love for someone that you wouldn’t do it?”

  “Dekker.” Her name is a frustrated warning.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Sure. Yes. Of course. That’s exactly how I’d profess my undying love for someone. A public statement for everyone to see, because I especially enjoy the guys razzing the shit out of me over it just like I am to the dude on the TV right now.”

  “I’m serious,” Dekker adds.

  “So am I. Better yet, I think that’s the way I’ll propose to the woman I plan to marry. Nothing like ridiculous fucking gestures to make the whole moment that much sweeter.”

  “But you’ve always said you’re never going to get married.”

  “Exactly,” he says with a definitive nod and a chuckle as he drops the remote control in mic-drop fashion before striding out.

  He must be frustrated if he’s leaving halfway through a football game.


  And by the grin on Dekker’s face, she knows he may have dropped the mic, but she got in the last unspoken word.

  BREXTON

  I OPEN MY DOOR AND all but swoon at the sight of Drew standing there. He has on a black V-neck, shorts, and a slow, easy grin that slays me from its start.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he repeats and holds out some daisies to me. “These are for you.”

  I emit the giddiest sound, and I’m not ashamed of it as I bury my face into the wildflowers. “Thank you. They smell beautiful.” I reach out and grab his hand.

  “I missed you, Brex.”

  Jesus. It’s only been minutes and my resolve to keep him at arm’s length is already shot. “I missed you too,” I say and step into him to give him a hello kiss, but he steps back before I can land it.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” I laugh, a little confused.

  “It pains me to say that. Especially when you’re standing there looking like that and I’m standing here missing you like crazy, but you were right that first night.”

  “About?” I laugh.

  “About how we did this all backward. Sleeping with each other before ever dating, and so—”

  “Why do I think I’m going to regret saying that?” I groan playfully.

  “Believe me. Falling into bed with you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Staying out of it—doing this the right way—is going to be one of the hardest.”

  “So what are you saying, Drew?”

  “I’m saying we are going on our first date. I made myself a promise that it will be the best first date ever. I owe that to you.”

  My heart melts into the biggest puddle at his feet, and I can’t help but smile. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Say you’re excited to spend the day with me.”

  “I am. I most definitely am.” I take a step closer to him. “Don’t I at least get to give you a kiss hello?” I ask coyly.

  He looks at me, jaw clenching, eyes laden with desire. “If you insist.”

  We meet halfway in the middle. His thumb and forefinger find my chin and tip my face up to his while his lips press the softest, most tender of kisses on my lips.

  It’s the kind that promises things to come. A level of respect that I’ve never been particularly shown before from any man other than my dad. This is a kiss of gentleness we haven’t shared yet.

  Of a first we’ve yet to experience.

  I glance over to Drew and shake my head, still trying to believe he went to all this trouble.

  He’s sitting beside me with a headset on and his hand casually resting on my thigh, as the world outside the window beside him zips away. It’s gone from concrete jungle to lush green trees. City to country.

  If I thought the date in general was a surprise, Drew pulling up to the airport and walking us onto the tarmac toward an awaiting helicopter was even more so.

  He smiles at me, and I want to crawl into his lap and just remember this feeling. That he took the time to plan something for me. Perhaps a little over the top, but incredible nonetheless.

  And my body is still reeling from that kiss. Odd when we’ve already slept together, when we had that hot-as-hell sex against the door in Miami—but there was something about the feeling behind it that told me this was more . . . that he is taking the next step toward trying to figure out what it is that we are.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” I ask, making his grin widen.

  “Right there.”

  I follow where his finger points and it’s a massive lake sprawling between a thick forest of trees. Leaning closer to the window, I take it all in. The glistening of the sun off the lake. The boats zipping around on the water. The green of the trees surrounding it.

  It looks like summer and relaxation, and when I turn to look at him my grin is wide. “Really?”

  He nods. “Do you remember it?”

  It’s my turn to stare at him for a beat as realization hits me. He’s taking me back to our childhood playground: Lake George. Where we’d spend summers and eat way too many s’mores while trying to scare the crap out of each other with ghost stories.

  They are the days I remember as carefree and innocent. When laughter filled the cabins we rented, the nights stretched into lying on our backs and staring at the stars, and when my mom was still alive. It’s amazing how I still miss her like crazy after all this time, and after seeing the lake, this is one of those times. Memories flood back. The sound of her laughter as I accidentally overturned the kayak we were in one summer. The way she’d sing the Star-Spangled Banner at the top of her lungs when we watched the fireworks explode over the lake on the Fourth of July. Her penchant for sneaking us kids down to the ice cream parlor under the guise of going to get some exercise and then make sure the evidence was hidden from everyone else. How she’d call us into their bedroom so we could have snuggle time that would end up with giggles and tickles.

  Thoughts of Lake George are always happy and carefree. And Drew brought me here today. Does that mean he’s prepared for some of his past to enter the present?

  “Are you serious?”

  He just smiles as the pilot informs us that we will be landing shortly.

  Drew and I stroll down the small main street, our hands linked and swinging together, and the sun overhead. How many nights did I lay in bed on a trip here and wish for this exact thing? How many things had I mentally bartered for this to happen? Not only for Drew Bowman to notice me as more than Bratty Brex, but for him to hold my hand for everyone to see?

  It’s funny how life changes and even funnier how when it does, some of those simple things still feel so very important.

  Like this.

  Like right now.

  “What is it you remember most about this place?” Drew asks.

  “So many things but that ice cream place, the one with the huge cones—”

  “The ones that we’d see who could finish first but then be plagued by the worst stomachache ever?”

  “Yep.” I nod.

  “Your mom loved that place.”

  “She did.” I smile, loving that he remembers. “Laughter. There was so much laughter all the time is what I think of when I remember our trips. That and getting up in the morning, running down to the dock and jumping in the water, because the last one in was a rotten egg.”

  He nods, his smile growing.

  “Fireworks on the Fourth of July. Days spent swimming and nights spent in front of the campfire,” I say.

  “It was the best, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.” I look over at him, but his eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses. “More than anything, I remember not ever having to worry about anything. Being a kid. Being carefree. And only thinking about what trouble we were going to get into the next day.”

  He stops in front of a driveway and takes our hands and lifts them to point at the house in front of us. It’s a gray clapboard with white trim. There are beach cruisers out front and an American flag waving from atop the apex of the garage’s front.

  It looks like idyllic, middle America somewhere with its green grass and overflowing flowerbeds.

  “Do you remember this place?” he asks.

  I shake my head and then stop as I realize this was the house we used to stay in. The Kincades stayed in this one and the Bowmans in the matching blue one right beside it.

  “Why do I remember it feeling so much bigger? Being so much farther out of town?” I murmur as I take it all in. Memories flood all at once. Drew chasing Dekker through the front yard with the hose. Maggs and I drawing a chalk hopscotch on the driveway. The joint dock that stretched out toward the lake that served anything from being a performance space to a fishing hole to a raceway.

  “Because we were little and everything seemed big back then. Add to that, the town’s grown so what felt like the outskirts is now the middle of the town.” He pulls me against his side and presses a kiss to the crown of my he
ad, as the two of us stare like idiots at a welcome piece of our childhood in front of us. “But the houses still look the same.”

  “They do.”

  “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s see if it’s still there.”

  “If what’s still there?”

  He tugs on my hand for me to follow. “We’re trespassing. Drew. We’re going to get into trouble.” He just laughs and slows his stride when we hit the side of the house. “What are we doing?” I ask in a harsh whisper.

  “It’s still there,” he murmurs, as he squats down and brushes something off the concrete that I can’t see.

  “What is?” I ask.

  “I thought you might like to see this.”

  And when he moves his hand, I can’t help the sound that comes from my mouth or my immediate reaction to drop to my knees and touch it.

  There in the concrete are five sets of handprints—one big, four little—all with initials carved into the center of them.

  But there’s only one set I reach out to touch. There’s only one set with the initials CK in the center. Claire Kincade. My mother. Tears well and spill over as I put my hands on my mother’s. As I find a connection with her that I didn’t realize I so desperately needed.

  And I welcome the onslaught of fond memories—joy meshed with sorrow, longing, and heartache—on the side of someone’s house where there is laughter somewhere inside. I also notice how my hands are the same size as hers.

  I stare through the blur of tears, unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of her holding my hands. The mom I miss so desperately and yet in this moment, feel a little closer to.

  Drew’s hand rubs up and down my back in support as he sits beside me in silence, allowing me to have a moment I never even knew existed.

  He gives me as much time as I need, letting my muted sobs turn into hitched breaths, then into appreciative silence.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I rest my head on his shoulder.

  “No need to thank me. I thought it might be something you’d want to see.”