Page 51 of The Goal

And then ruffles her hair as if she’s a toddler.

“Damn. She got the forehead kiss?” D’Andre murmurs. “That’s rough.”

Whatever. It was still a kiss! And I don’t even want to know who this chick is anymore. I feel stupid for coming tonight.

Tucker is Mr. Popular, with his swarm of admirers and impeccable manners and that reddish hair that makes him look like he belongs in some old-timey family sitcom where life is perfect, perfect, perfect.

I’m the overachiever, the bitch who studies her ass off and works every second of every day to try to climb out of the gutter she was born in so she can stand next to all these Briar kids without feeling inferior.

“Let’s go,” I repeat.

My friends must realize how serious I am, because they all take a step forward. We’re about two feet from the base of the steps when I hear my name.

“Sabrina!”

Crap. I’ve been spotted.

“Wait up.” His voice sounds closer now.

I turn to Carin in a silent plea for help, but she simply grins. When I turn to Hope and D’Andre, they’re pretending to be studying her phone. Traitors.

Sighing, I swing around and meet Tucker halfway.

He’s visibly thrilled to see me, his eyes bright and his sexy mouth curved in a smile. “What are you doing here?”

I say the first lame thing that comes to mind. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You were, were you?” His smile widens. “And did you happen to catch any of the game while you were in the neighborhood?”

“All of it, actually. That was a nice assist.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about hockey.”

“I don’t. I’m just repeating what the announcer said on the PA.”

“Tuck!” someone from the group of players calls. “You coming?”

He twists around to shout back, “I’ll meet you there!” Then he’s smiling at me again. “Want to come back to my place to celebrate the win with us?”

I shake my head. “I have to get home. I work tomorrow. Besides—”Don’t say it…“I don’t particularly feel like—”Don’t you fucking say it, Sabrina!“—being a third wheel,” I finish, and want to punch myself for it.

His dark auburn eyebrows shoot up. “What are you talking about?”

I clench my teeth.

“Darlin’,” he prompts.

“Little Red Riding Hood over there,” I mumble, jerking my head toward Blondie, who’s now chatting with one of Tucker’s friends. “You two looked like you were on a date.”

“A date? Um, no.” He starts to laugh. “That’s Sheena, a friend of mine.” He pauses. “Well, an ex.”

I pounce on that. “See!”

“See what? She’s an ex, but she’s also a friend. I’m friends with lots of my exes.”

Of course he is. No girl on this damn planet would ever Carrie Underwood this guy and key his truck or bash it in with a baseball bat. He’s too fucking nice. It’s impossible to hate him.

“You’re jealous,” he teases.

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