Page 61 of Pieces

Looking down at her chest rising and falling in quick succession, I can’t help the smirk pulling at my lips. I grab her wrist, the one with the pink scrunchie, and slip it off with ease, placing it on my own. She doesn’t stop me, doesn’t do much except gape at me, but there’s a definite fire in her eyes, like she wants this but won’t let herself have it.

I don’t want anyone else, and I know I wouldn’t be okay with anyone else wanting her either, but that feels like a weighted confession, so I keep that to myself for now. I’m new to relationships. I’m new to being the guy she’d want to spend more than one night with. But since this is a permanent situation, and I like the girl more than I’ve ever liked anyone, I’m struggling to want to stay away.

“I know you said no dating, princess, but I’m going to wear you down.”

That sweet tasting tongue darts out to wet her lips, but she doesn’t take the hat off.

“That scrunchie doesn’t come with magical powers,” she says as her eyes flick to the fabric around my wrist. That stubbornness is very attractive right now.

I lift my arm, inspecting it, flexing just for good measure. “No? Huh, I’m keeping it anyway.”

Her gaze lingers a beat too long on my arm before she catches herself and looks away, biting her lip.

“I don’t think you get how hard I’m tryingnotto let you wear me down.” Her words are nearly swallowed by the music and noise around us. Maybe that admission was meant for her and not me, just an escaped thought before she could rein it in.

But it’s too late. Now I know she’s fighting it, us. And that knowledge feels powerful. It makes me even more determined to win her over.

Chapter twenty-seven

Daphne

Theemailstaresbackat me, the bold words standing out like they’re lit in neon:

“We’d love to hear more about your ideas. Can you come by the office next week to discuss this in person?”

I blink at the screen, my heart hammering. For a moment, I think I’ve misread it. I reread it twice, three times, but the words don’t change. They actually want to talk to me. Not to brush me off or politely decline, but totalk, to hear more about my campaign.

I grab my phone and dial Liv before I can second-guess it. She answers on the second ring, her voice smug as ever. “Let me guess. You got knocked up by a hot-as-fuck football player, who also happens to be the greenest fucking flag there ever was.”

“Been there, fucked that.” I snort, pacing my tiny dorm room, my palms sweating. “No, I got an email.”

“Ooh, an email. Let me grab some popcorn. What’s it about?”

“From CLUSports.” My words tumble out in a rush. “They want to meet with me. Like, in person. To talk about my ideas.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and then Liv shrieks so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Oh my god, Daphne! That’s huge!”

“I know,” I say, sinking onto the edge of my bed. My heart feels like it’s racing a mile a minute. “I thought they were going to let me down gently, you know? Like, ‘Thanks for your submission, better luck next time.’ But no, they actually want to talk.”

“Well, duh. Your idea is amazing,” Liv says, her tone matter of fact. “They’d be stupid not to want you.”

Part of me still expects them to laugh me off, to see right through my thin veil of professionalism and focus on the beads of sweat that seem to be covering my face and upper lip more often than not, because my body temperature has gone through the roof since being pregnant.

But another part, the part that heard the woman from Mug Life the other day, Carmen, saying,“Messy doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human,”has played on repeat in my mind, serving as a reminder I need.

“Thanks, Liv,” I say. “I’d better tell Hudson and get to work on this.”

“Ta-ta for now, bestie, love you.”

We hang up, and I shoot a text to Hudson. I know he’s at practice right now, so he won’t see it for a little while.

My notebook sits open on the desk, taunting me with its half-finished ideas and crossed-out notes. The phrase “#WomenPlayToo” is circled at the top of the page. I think I knew something wasn’t enough when I wrote it, but now, I’ve got new ideas.

“What am I trying to say?” I mutter under my breath.

My eyes land on a blank section of the page, and without thinking, I start writing. The words spill out in bursts:

Young mothers in sports.

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