Page 20 of Not By the Playbook

She sighs and puts her book down. “I know because I probably hold the record for most incidents with a ball ever.”

I snicker like a twelve-year-old and she rolls her eyes, “Not those balls.” Her hand comes up and she unfolds her fingers as she counts. “Softball to my temple, a tennis ball got me in the boob.”

I wince at that.

“Billiard ball against my arm, bowling ball almost, almost hit my foot. Missed it by an inch.”

I look at her, stupefied. “How did the billiard ball work exactly?”

“Well, when we were in high school, Carrie was practicing her eight-ball skills in the games room—wanted to impress some guy by making a fancy jump shot. She hit the ball a little too hard, and it hopped right off of the table. She shouted for me to duck, but I just stood there like a frozen idiot. Wore the bruise on my arm for a week. Surprised no one called Social Services on my parents.”

My eyebrows lift higher and higher with each incident she details out.

She finally finishes with, “As a result, I’ve become an expert at evading flying objects, unidentifiable or not.”

I scoff and lean back. “No way. I still don’t believe you.”

“Want to try it? I can dodge anything,” she challenges.

“You’re on. What do I get if I win?” I ask.

“What do you want?” Interest stirs in her eyes, and she sits up straight.

I wonder what she’ll say if I ask for sex. “Got more of those short skirts?” I give her legs a lascivious look. She’s in tight yoga pants since Jenna is MIA.

She shakes her head. “Perv.”

“Only for you, girlfriend dearest.”

She snorts.

“And you? What do you want?” I ask.

“The glory of the win, of course. And I’ll take another one of those.” She points at the T-shirt I’m wearing, stamped with my number. I grin. Call me a caveman, but I’m not going to complain if she wants to build a collection of clothing with my name stamped on it.

“You can just say you just want to see me naked, you know.” I give her a devious grin as I stealthily pick up the cushion on my side.

I shoot it at her, but she’s ready and ducks it neatly. I fire three more in quick succession, and my girl neatly avoids those, too. I push up off the couch.

“You coming for me?” she taunts.

Oh God, yes, I want to be coming for you.

There is a set of cork coasters on the table, and I pitch them her way, one at a time. Rebecca ducks again. I spin one of them on purpose, just to make her writhe on the sofa.

“That all you got, QB?” She smirks.

I throw the last coaster at her and she contorts with the skill of a newly-minted Cirque du Soleil performer. I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.

I need more ammo, but there’s nothing suitable handy. But then I grin evilly, and her sage-green eyes glint with suspicion. I grab the back of my T-shirt and drag it up over my head. Watching her eyes widen at the sight of my chest doesn’t get old.

“For the win, then. Time for your prize.” I launch the shirt at her, but she must have been distracted because she ducks a second too late and hits her head on the side table.

“Oh shit!” I leap over the coffee table to get to Becs.

“You okay? Honey, where does it hurt?” I ask urgently as I scoop her off the floor and into my lap.

She groans and rubs her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just winded.”

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