Page 38 of Wrong Score

I trail off, the words hovering between us.

“Me?” Bex raises an eyebrow, a hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “Ouch, Summers.”

Despite myself, I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Your feelings aren’t hurt,” I say, giving him a sideways glance.

What's wrong with this man?

If I come to him with my tail between my legs, basically humiliating myself at what a horrible ice skater I am, and ask for a truce, he challenges me to a hockey duel. But if I insult him, he grins.

He shrugs. "Fair enough. But why not just find someone else to put a ring on your finger and give you a house full of kids? You’re gorgeous—clever—fiery. Find someone better suited and start the family you want. Drew’s a lazy sod anyway. He’d only hold you back from what you’re really capable of."

My jaw practically hits the limo's floor.

Bex is on a roll with the compliments.

"What?" he asks, watching me as I blink back at him.

"Did you just call me gorgeous and clever?" I ask.

He licks his lips. "And fiery, don't go forgetting that one. I doubt just anyone can meet you at your level."

And there it is.

What I know to be true.

Finding a man who challenges me, interests me, and is willing to take a woman who can't bear her own kids. As if it weren't already hard enough to find a man-unicorn.

"Yeah…" I say, exhaling slowly, turning my head to gaze out the window.

"I meant that as a compliment, you know," he says. "You'll find someone better than that knobhead."

"He's not a knobhead."

He turns to me in his seat.

"Fine, he's a filthy wanker, and he did you a favor because you deserve more."

"I can't have kids," I say, dropping the bomb right there between us. "So he ended it."

He freezes, not a single blink.

Then he turns back to face forward and rolls up the sleeves of his wet dress shirt. It's the first time I've seen the tattoos on Bex's forearms. He's always wearing his Hawkeyes Coaching windbreaker at the stadium or his suit during postgame media. He looks ten times more intimidating with ink peeking past his shirt than he usually does. "Driver, please turn around and head back to the gala. There's a prick back there that I need to beat some manners into."

Drew hurt me but it’s not worth Bex going to jail on assault charges, even if the offer warms my heart a little.

"No!” I yell back to the driver, gripping Bex’s forearm as if he might jump out of the limo and run the rest of the way there if the driver doesn’t turn around. Bex glances down at where my hand grips around his arm and then back up at me. "We're fine. No need to go back. And can we get some privacy, if you don't mind?" I call out to ensure that Bex can't make his request to turn around again.

The driver does as I ask even though Bex is technically the passenger that gets to make the calls. The driver probably just doesn't want to be an accessory to murder by taking Bex back to find Drew, and I don't blame him.

"Summers, what he did was fucked up. Someone needs to tell him so. I’m the perfect bloke for the job,” he says, leveling me with a stern gaze.

"He has a baby on the way. And besides, you told me that I'm better without him, remember?" I say, releasing him.

“Alright, let me get this straight. You ran off when you heard that his fiancée is pregnant, but you’re telling me you don’t want him back.”

I rub my lips together. He’s going to make me tell him, and some part of me wants to—I’m not sure why.

"We tried to have a baby," I say. "After my OBGYN told me that I have less than a one percent chance, we decided to try for a miracle. He was so optimistic. I don't think he even considered that it might not work. He had me believing it too. We even went as far as IVF, but nothing took. After a year of us trying and three years together, Drew told me that he wanted his own kids and that we'd resent each other if he stayed."

---