Page 12 of The Trouble with Players

I forced a smile.

He slipped his hand into Gina’s. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

She glanced to me guiltily.

“Go,” I assured her. “I’m fine.”

She smiled her appreciation then let him tug her down to the water.

I stood awkwardly alone, sipping my beer as I watched a couple of guys throw a football while others mingled with local girls I’d recognized from my time there each summer. If they recognized me, they didn’t let on—or even look my way. I spotted Crew kissing the girl in his lap. I wondered if she knew he slept in my bed last night. Ugh. I hated that the thought even crossed my mind. It wasn’t like either one of us liked it. We both were stubbornly doing what stubborn people did. Push buttons. Stand their ground. Remain unfazed.

“Hey, aren’t you Marty Richmond’s daughter?” A guy stepped up beside me. He stood at about six four, so I raised my gaze to meet his.

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound impressed,” he said.

“What’s your dad’s name?” I asked him.

“What?”

“What’s your dad’s name?” I repeated.

“Buck.”

“I hear you’re Buck’s son,” I said.

His eyes narrowed.

“My name’s Peyton, and I am far more interesting than who my father is. Just like you are far more interesting than being just Buck’s son.”

“Touché.”

I shrugged. “Just gets old.”

“Sorry to bring it up, Peyton,” he said, stressing my name.

“What’s your name, Buck’s son?”

He chuckled. “Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam. You play for the Sharks?”

He glanced down at himself. “Did my athletic physique give me away?”

“Totally,” I said, playing along since I could sense he wasn’t a total douche. “What position do you play?”

“Is this a test?”

My brows lifted. “A test?”

“Yeah. Like if I’m the right-fielder, are you gonna walk away?”

“Well, are you the right-fielder?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I sipped my beer as he awaited my response. “You passed. I can talk to you.”

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