Page 44 of How to Score Off Field

So fucking fun.

I feel like a giant clod pole among short people, towering over most of them as I dance and sing, chugging my beer to loosen up even more.

And let me be clear: two beers isn’t going to get me buzzed, let alone drunk, especially not when I’m sweating it off.

This time when the song tempo changes, I don’t walk off the dance floor.

I look down at Tess as she looks up at me, putting my hand on her hip as she slides her free hand to my shoulder.

Welp. Guess we’re committed.

CHAPTER15

TESS

“HOW ARE YOU STILL SINGLE?” LMAO YOU’RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT, SIT TIGHT BUDDY.

“This feels like prom.”I smile at Drew so as not to make this awkward and joke about how odd this feels, though it doesn’t feel odd at all.

“Prom? So formal.”

“Okay, maybe homecoming?”

“Still too formal.”

I squint at him through narrowed eyes. “Did you even go to dances in high school?”

“No.” He laughs. “Well, nope. That’s not entirely true. Our mama made us get dressed up a few times so she could know what it was like to take pictures for a dance. She didn’t have girls and always felt like she was missin’ out.”

“Aw, your poor mama, stuck with you four monsters.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Yup, we sure didn’t make things easy, but if I’m bein honest, I never gave her much trouble. Dallas and Drake were the worst.”

I’d heard about the trouble they’d caused as teenagers. Dallas Colter, his second oldest brother, was a legend in our town for causing mischief. There’s a country song about painting on a water tower, and Dallas Colter went and did the same as a senior prank, spray painting his football number on it like some kind of idiot.

“Seriously. Who spray paints their own damn number on a water tower and expects not to get caught?”

Drew knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Do you know how pissed our daddy was? Jesus Christ, he was damn lucky he didn’t get expelled, and they only let him graduate ’cause they were headed to the state championship and didn’t want to lose.”

I purse my lips.

That’s the thing I hate about this town: football players are treated like damn royalty and like saints even when they act like dicks and assholes and do shit like spray paint government property. In this day and age, should they still be getting away with that shit?

No, ma’am.

“What’s your mom doin’ this weekend?”

Drew shrugs. “Probably traveling. My brother is in training, and his fiancée is looking at houses in the suburbs, so I think she’s spending the weekend in Dallas. She didn’t know I was comin’ home. I didn’t fancy being shacked up under her roof since she would have given me a curfew.”

“Ugh, that’s literally the same reason I didn’t want to spend the weekend at home. I’m stayin’ with Miranda, who’s gone missing.”

His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”

“No, she’s probably banging her boyfriend in the bed of his pickup truck.”

“For serious?”

“Yes, for serious.” I laugh at his choice of words. He sounds so Southern and Texan sometimes. Other times, he doesn’t sound it at all.

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