Page 41 of How to Score Off Field

“I haven’t danced in years.”

I wasn’t big into dancing when I was younger, but we would come here in high school to watch the crowds. Tourists. The mechanical bull riding—of course we did, there wasn’t much to do in the small town we grew up in, where Friday nights centered around football and not much else.

The honky-tonk on the edge of town is a staple in this state we live in, and even when we were under the drinking age, we’d show up to watch, standing along the split rails surrounding the hardwood dance floor.

Tess bellows out the starting lyrics to the country song we grew up singing, wiggling her hips as she moves, signing and attempting to get me to sing, too. She warbles it off-key, and off-tempo, which I find absolutely fucking adorable.

I relent.

Why the hell not?

“There’s a honky-tonk,” I shout with the rest of the crowd ’cause that’s what we do. We shout. We drink. We dance.

Just like riding a bike, the moves come back to me, and my body steps into place, my long legs tapping and stepping sideways, back, forward—in sync with the tide.

Across the room, I see a blonde with her arms wrapped around Grady’s shoulders, her face tilted up, listening to whatever he’s saying to her.

“Damn, he moves fast,” I mutter, feet moving on autopilot to the beat of the music as if I do this regularly.

These feet were always meant to be on the playing field, but somehow, this feels right, too.

Weird, isn’t it?

How coming home makes things better?

I feel relaxed, and it’s not because of the beer, which I’ve barely touched.

It’s cold, though, so I take another swig, relishing the way it hits my throat, then my belly, warming me from the inside out.

When the song ends, another immediately begins—but it’s slow. I don’t want to make things weird by asking Tess to dance again. It’s too intimate, and we’re not in that place, despite the fact that she dragged me out here.

I tip my imaginary hat to her before walking off the dance floor, leaving her behind.

Or at least I think that’s what I’m doing.

She’s on my heels, weaving through the crowded dance floor behind me, cocktail still in her hand.

I take a long pull from my beer bottle to empty it, then toss it in a nearby trash can.

Damn, that was tasty.

Cold.

Hit right.

“I hate when they play slow songs,” Tess grumbles to one of her friends—a brunette I don’t recognize. “Brianne, this is Drew. Drew, this is Brianne, one of Morgan’s bridesmaids.”

Another girl walks up to us. “And this is Sissy.”

I nod to them both, a Southern gentleman at heart, once again tipping that imaginary cowboy hat in their direction. “Ladies.”

“Drew Colter, as I live and breathe.” Sissy—whom I’ve never met and have only heard about—looks as if she belongs on a college campus in a sorority house, the kind of Southern girl you see screaming into the Rush Tok video and the kind of girl you stereotypically see dating athletes.

Any athlete ’cause that’s the only kind of guy a girl like her wants to date, and I can smell a cleat chaser from a mile away.

Drew Colter, as I live and breathe.We haven’t even met, so what is this girl going on about?

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Have we met?”

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