Page 7 of Perfect Playbook

I cannot teach your brothers how to be men, but I’ve always seen it as my biggest duty to show you how to become a woman. It hasn’t always been easy to find the sweet spot between respecting our culture and at the same time defying things that have no place in this modern world. I hope I’ve been an example to you of a strong, capable, and independent woman. I see this spirit in you.

I have wrung my heart out, giving you every last drop for your life, mija. My heart, I leave on Earth with you, your father, and your brothers, I take only my soul to Heaven. It will be hard for Papá. Please promise me you will all look after each other always.

I wish I had time to teach you a hundred more lessons, but I leave you with five. I hope they guide your spirit to true happiness in this world.

Put your family first.

You do not become a woman by becoming someone’s wife.

Always stand up for yourself.

If you fail, don’t give up.

Be gracious for the small things and allGod gives you and be generous with what you have.

Con todo mi cariño,

Mamá

These life lessons were things she repeated often, even before this letter. It says so much and not enough at the same time. Am I woman enough now not to lose myself in a relationship? Or did she mean just don’t define yourself by one?

Logan and I have been in a situationship for two months. Maybe it’s dating, but we aren’t official. Despite the fact I don’t hold the title of girlfriend, he sure as hell treats me like one. He knows my schedule and meets me after lectures to carry my backpack. He leaves notes for me anywhere and everywhere with inspirational quotes or jokes to make me laugh. And he doesn’t take no for an answer when I don’t feel like eating. I’ve gained every ounce back in relationship weight. Late-night pizza is a staple of our diet. I don’t know if we’re hungry at that time of night or if it just gives us an excuse to stay up talking.

Never in a million years did I think I’d lay down my guard, but Logan disarms me like a ninja. I never see it coming. Mr. Popular from Starlight Canyon High seems to have chosen me, and every time I tell myself to be careful, somehow I still end the night in his embrace. Has he cast a spell on me? Or is he earning my trust?

Just then, there’s a musical knock on my door. It’s him. Logan, helpful and involved as ever, offered to help withthe posters.

I fold up my mom’s letter, place it in the box, and slide the entire thing back under the bed. “Come in.”

He steps in, tall and sexy with his backward baseball cap on. He throws his jacket on the end of my bed and exposes a fitted Henley and the broad shoulders and biceps that are also a source of this problem. Why didn’t I ever experience this hormonal rage in high school? It was easier to stay away from boys then. Maybe that’s just it. Logan isn’t a boy. He’s a man.

It’s not just his body either. He’s more mature and deeper than I ever would have given him credit for. It’s been a beautiful surprise. Our conversations about our grief have shown a compassion I’ve not really seen in a man before. He’s supportive with other topics, too—my career aspirations, my studies here at college, and how much of a struggle it is with my dyslexia, my worries about dad back home. I’ve inched closer and closer to Logan, letting the drawbridge down inch by inch, and he seems so… safe.

“Hey,” he says, crouching. He kisses me then throws himself on his belly and grabs the orange marker to finish the job I started. “Sorry I’m late. I…” He seems to choose his words carefully. “I had some conference calls, and they ran longer than expected.”

Do I want to ask, or don’t I? My stomach twists in knots every time I know he’s having these discussions, and I say a silent prayer that he’ll get signed by the Santa Fe Scorpions and stay in state.

He’s more than strong enough. More than ready.

But I’m not.

Still, I won’t chase him or make him claustrophobic. There’s no point in discussing it because it’s out of our hands.

Anyway, the idea of being clumped in with the prettycheerleaders and campus beauties who bounce up to him with perky breasts and Hollywood smiles chasing his tail gives me the ick. I’m sure all the women in Logan’s life have chased him, but that will not be me. I saw how the girls were in high school. They swooned by his side while he practically ignored them, chatting with his hockey buddies, laughing, throwing back his head with wide, pearly-toothed smiles framed by the sexiest dimples of an all-American hunk.

Not that I was watching him.

Maybe just a couple of times.

I take a red marker and start on another letter, giving myself an inner eye roll. If I’m holding back and making him come to me, I sure do let his tongue dive deep inside my mouth. It’s not exactly giving the milk for free, but he knows the cow is ready.

I focus on the letter and draw long colored lines in the white space.

Scribbling more orange, he slows his marker down around the lined edge. “You need to come to the game tonight.”

I chuckle. “Oh, you’re telling me what to do now?”

Logan and I spend just about all my free time together, but I have never gone to one of his games. No way I’m going to be another one of his midriff-bearing fans and puck bunnies in waiting.

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