Page 4 of The Problem with Players

I grabbed my purse and jacket before heading out the door. As the chilled February breeze smacked my cheeks, myoverheated body relaxed slightly. Maybe that was all I needed—some fresh air to calm down. I couldn’t imagine what my blood pressure numbers would’ve been from a simple game of charades.

Walking down the semi-snow-covered sidewalk to Jackie’s Beer & Spirits store, I muttered how stupid I was for getting so upset over a game. Did I overreact? Maybe, but Wesley was wrong for never mentioning that his best friend was a woman. A woman he once-upon-a-time dated, nonetheless. I felt as if I had every right to be upset. Yet what bothered me the most was how dramatic I looked in front of his friends. It was a terrible first impression, and now they probably thought I was some kind of psychopath.

As I walked into Jackie’s, I felt a breath of relief as I heard one of my favorite sounds—a sports anchor speaking on the television screen. I grabbed a few bottles of champagne and headed to the front of the store, where Jackie sat behind her counter watching the Super Bowl game.

“Hey, Avery. Kind of surprised you pulled yourself away from this game. Did you see the halftime show? Miley Cyrus came out as a surprise guest!” Jackie said, taking the bottles of champagne from me and ringing them up.

I grumbled to myself and shook my head. “I missed it.”

“You? Miss Sports Lady herself missed it?”

“Yeah, not watching the game tonight,” I muttered, staring at the television. My team was up by three points in the fourth quarter, and I wanted to shit a few bricks trying to figure out how they got to that point. I paid for the champagne, took the three bottles by their necks, and kept my eyes on the screen. The crowd went wild as the opposing team threw the ball, which Jameson intercepted.

“Oh shit!” I shouted, tossing my hands up in victory. I couldn’t believe I made it down to the liquor store to witness one of the greatest interceptions ever. Jameson not only caughtthe ball but ran down the field as if he were running from a masked murderer, sprinting as if his life depended on it. “Go, go, go!” Jackie and I shouted together. My heart pounded wildly as Jameson crossed into the end zone, scoring another touchdown.

“Oh my gosh!” I said, jumping up and down in glee.

“That was wild!” Jackie said, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’re right. That was intense,” a deep, velvety voice said from behind me, spooking me back into my body. I turned around and bumped straight into a big, firm body, causing me to lose grip on the bottles in my hands. They began to fall, but the man was quick with his response time to catch all three bottles within his arms.

Massive. F**king. Arms.

“Whoa, nice save there, Nathan,” Jackie mentioned before returning to the game.

My eyes rose as my heart began to pound against my rib cage when I met his stare. This time, the pounding of said heart wasn’t from excitement. It was from disgust.

Nathan. F**king. Pierce.

As if my evening could get any worse.

Nathan stood there with my champagne bottles in his arms. He had enough nerve to smile at me with his toothy, all-American grin. I hated that smile more than anything, and I went out of my way to avoid said smile since he had moved back to Honey Creek, Illinois.

Nathan Pierce wasn’t simply the boy who got away—he was the one who freaking sprinted. I wasn’t certain I hated anyone with a deeper passion than that man standing in front of me. With an annoyingly impressive physique sculpted through countless hours on the baseball field, his powerful six-five frame made me feel tiny beside him. I wasn’t even short at my five-nine height, but Nathan made me feel like a pathetic ant when he stood near me.

Not only was he massive in size but he was massive in heart, too. His features were so warm and welcoming, which drove me up a wall. Everyone in town loved the man. Probably because he was once-upon-a-time famous. People in Honey Creek loved anything that had a touch of success attached to it. Even though Nathan’s career did crash and burn.

Since his return to town, I had watched him from a distance. His deep-set brown eyes were intense and expressive. He could express a million words solely with his eyes, and once upon a time, I could decipher every syllable. He had rich, smooth ebony skin that seemed to glow with health, even in the wintertime. His smile drew people in with its warmth, and the rugged handsomeness about him made women toss themselves at him as if they were at a 1980s New Kids on the Block concert. The light stubble that framed his jawline and the way he wore his baseball hat with a very prominent bend to the bill brought him an amount of effortless charm and attractiveness.

For anyone other than me, that was.

To me, he looked stupid.

Stupid and ugly.

Ugly and stupid.

His smile stretched wider. It made my skin crawl like a million spiders were unleashed over my whole body. I’d never had a smile that made me want to upchuck until I received one from Nathan Pierce.

“Hey, Avery,” he said.

My gosh.

I wished he had forgotten my name because the last thing I needed to hear was it rolling off his tongue. Wesley was my current love, and Nathan was my first. He was the man who made me hate men. My man-hating villain story, one might say. The one who left scars on my heartbeats many years before he ran off to win the World Series for California.

Twice.

Wesley was the redemption arc for my hatred of men. Well, until pretty Miss Drew showed up.

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