Page 101 of How to Lose at Love

“So,” Ryann says at last.

Easing out of the parking lot, I tip my head to the dude in the yellow reflector vest, signaling me onto the street with his orange glowing stick, recognition lighting up his face when I give him a thank you wave.

“So,” I echo, not sure what to say next. The stadium was deafening—it’s one thing to be in the stands listening to it; it’s something else entirely being out on the field.

Sure, I’m able to tune it out, but that too takes brainpower and focus, and right now, my brain wants to rest—not come up with words to entertain the passenger in my car.

“Where to?”

I think about this. “Normally I either go home and crash or go home and watch a movie to decompress, or I go out. Grab food or whatever.”

She nods.

“Are you glad you came today?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

“Yeah, of course. It was fun.” Ryann is looking out the window at the world passing by. “I didn’t realize how good you are.”

She didn’t realize how good I am? Did she think I’m chopped liver? Did she think all the fuss is over nothing? Does she think agents and opportunities come out of the woodwork for mediocrity?

Damn girl. “I get by.”

Ryann lifts her arm, giving her hair another tousle before glancing over at me.

“Are you hungry?”

It’s not early, but it’s not late—that weird in between because we had an early game.

“Not yet.” Although that’s due in part to the protein shake I downed immediately after the game, I also have the bagged meal the training staff hands us as we’re leaving the locker room; tossed that in the back seat of my truck.

Two turkey sandwiches—which I’m not in the mood for—but I’ll still have to eat when I get home. They give us subs or sandwiches after every game to ensure we’re taking care of ourselves since we’re burning calories like crazy and haven’t eaten in hours.

Ryann taps on the center console and I look down at her hand, her long fingers. Her shiny pink nails.

Do not touch her hand, Dallas.

Leave it alone.

I avert my eyes, watching the road, not wanting to miss my turn. “Did you want me to drive you home?”

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

“Sure.”

Is that disappointment I feel? I thought maybe she’d want to come hang with me and my brothers a bit, watch a show, shoot the shit, order something to eat, and make a night of it. It’s been a long day, and another hot shower doesn’t sound like a bad idea either; the showers in the locker room never get hot enough for my liking.

Hot shower.

Meat.

Pasta.

Water, water, and more water.

I pray to God the house is empty when I get home—I’ll be so irritated if those neighbor chicks are there.

Again.

It’s not long before I’m pulling up to Ryann’s building, the rain still beating down on us hard, the overcast sky getting dark as the day drags on.

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