Page 28 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

“Who told you that?” I feign shock even though I’m very aware of the reputation I’ve earned—no, more likecultivated—on my team. It’s not really true, especially considering some of the real bad boys in professional sports, but I lean into the label anyway.

It’s an easy recipe: keep all talk to surface-level stuff, act like you don’t really care about anything, and flirt with any woman who breathes. Place in the oven at 350 for an hour, and you’ve baked yourself a bad boy.

“A reputable source.” She pauses. “Is it true?”

“Eh. Not exactly. I guess it depends on what you mean by bad boy.”

Something about Amelia losing respect for me doesn’t sit right. I don’t love the look she’s giving me now. Like she believes whatever she’s heard, and it reallydoesbother her.

Given the way her day turned out, I suddenly want to dispel any notion she has of me being a bad guy. I’m for sure nothing like Drew and don’t want to get lumped in with his kind.

“I mean, maybecomparativelyI guess I could be considered a bad boy. Only because we’ve got some legit Boy Scouts on the team.”

The Appies is a different kind of organization. I’ve played for a handful of teams, and I could feel something new the first time I walked into the Appies’ locker room. The guys and the whole organization, really, isn’t like anything else I’ve known. People talk about teams forming a brotherhood, but often it’s just talk. A bullet point on a press release.

With the Appies, it’s the framework underpinning the whole group and the reason why so many guys don’t want to get called up to our affiliate team and are happy to sign contracts here long-term.

I mean, sure—the money’s better than most minor league teams too. That doesn’t hurt. But there’s money elsewhere. We stay for the team.

I’m not sure how or why or when the Appies became this way. The vibe definitely doesn’t trickle down from Larry Jensen, the owner. Total douchey dudebro who sees things—and people—in terms of dollar signs. Which we earn him plenty of.

Maybe the vibe comes from the players or the other staff or just the right combination of personalities. Coach is a big part of it. The assistant coaches too, who take their cues from him.

Then there’s Parker, whose social media strategy crafted an image that maybe in turn crafted us into something different. Something bigger. Better. She’s a good influence and adds her own happy brand of sunshine to any room she walks in.

Unless any of us are out of line, and then the Boss comes out.

If I happen to embrace being the bad boy of the Appies, it’s just an easy fit. Ever since I was a kid, I was the one most likely to be sent to the principal’s office. For talking out of turn or talking back or just talking too much. Maybe for the odd prank here and there, but what kid hasn’t put plastic wrap over a toilet seat or rigged a bucket of water over a doorway?

Until now with Amelia, I’ve never really minded the label. A bad boy on our team is still better than the best behavedplayer anywhere else. Plus, I honestly follow the same sort of rules the guys and I set out for each other, which includes respecting women. I just happen to have dated a lot of women. Respectfully.

“And you’re not a Boy Scout?” she teases, but I can hear the question underneath her words. “Why the bad boy label then? Is it the tattoos?”

“It’s probably because I run my mouth a lot.”

She gasps dramatically. “You?”

“And … I’ve dated a lot,” I admit.

“Ah.” One syllable. Then she glances away from me.

“I won’t get serious unless I find someone I want to be serious about.”Someone like you, I think. Definitely not the time to mention how I thought this the night I met Amelia. “But I’m not, like, some kind of serial player. I don’t, like, date and dash.”

She snorts, but a tiny smile returns. “Never heard that one before.”

“I just made it up. But it’s true.” I pause. “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea about me.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

But Iwantto. “I’m not a bad guy. I wouldn’t be here if I were.”

“I know.” Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. Then she reaches over and brushes her fingertips across my arm.

Even with my cotton shirt between us, her touch hits me like an electric current, a jolt zipping up my arm and making goose bumps rise on my skin.

“Thank you for being my getaway driver,” she says.

When she starts to lift her hand away, I cover it with my big one, holding her there. I like the way it feels, having her small hand wrapped in mine.

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