Page 15 of Play Maker

I hold out my bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

She taps hers to mine, adding, “Only good thing about college.”

I don’t add that I agree college ball was epic. Scholarship, eating regularly, getting my ass kicked on the field and not at home. Deb before she lost the filter and showed me who she was … I don’t say any of that shit.

Silence.

And in that silence, there’s Lauren Brooks. Her face was the face of new beginnings, as my wife lay there, sobbing because her husband was supposed to get picked for a good team, not a shit one.

Time hasn’t dulled that feeling—seeing Lauren Brooks on the screen. Kind of felt like the immigrants must have pulling up to Ellis Island. Lauren being the Statue of Liberty, Deb the assholes who didn’t want us here.

I’m here, livingmydream, and yeah, it’s still my dream, even though I have a broken-down truck I probably can’t afford to fix.

That pull. That maybe. Thefuck, what now?

The fire snaps, spitting little embers like it knows what’s coming.

We’re not touching, not yet, but everything in the air is pulling me toward her. And I let it. Because this? This is what I know how to do. This is what women like about me.

Not my opinions, not my heart, not my baggage, bruises and scars, or what I did to get out of the Midwest.I don’t like it much, either.

Just this. Justme.In bed. In body. In silence.

I’m still technically married. Separated, yeah. But not free—not on paper. The divorce should be finalized by the end of the month. It would have already been done if Deborah signed what we agreed to last time. Now she’s dragging her heels to see if she can get more when we win the championship game. Wants to keep bleeding me dry before she lets me go.

I heard from the lawyer last week—she might settle. One-time payout. Done and dusted. I’d considered it—pay her off. Start over.

I almost asked my agent, Drew Daniels, about an advance. Almost. But I don’t want to look like the fucking loser I am.

What would Lo think? The girl who owns the silo I’m standing in? Whose family name is etched into the foundation of the Legacy organization who run The Knights. Her family employs me. My paycheck still flows through the hands that raised her. I’m not Hudson or Boone. I’m not a man raised by good women. Hell, I don’t even remember my mom.

And here I am, about to cross a line I can’t uncross.

She shifts under the blanket, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“Didn’t realize that was a dealbreaker.”

“It is if you keep looking at me like you want something you’re not allowed to take.”

And just like that, she flips the power back to me. The permission switch is pointing to on.

I lean in, slow and deliberate. “We’re snowed in, Lo. What happens in here stays in here.”

Her lashes drop low. “That how it works?”

I grin, but I know it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Been told more than once that I’m cold. “I’ve been separated for years, but I’m still married. Divorce is finally on the horizon, and I can’t take chances. And I’m not ever going down that road again. It’s not for me. I’m just heat in a storm and a body in a bed.”

“Same,” she whispers.

The word hits my ears like a whistle on the field—it’s play time.

This is mine now. This moment. This skin. This breath. She gave it. I take it.

Not because I think I deserve her—not a chance in hell. But because this is the only place in a relationship that I make sense.Like I’m good for something. Forthis.

I reach for her slow but firm. No hesitation. One hand finds the back of her neck, my fingers threading into her thick, soft hair as I pull her toward me. She meets me halfway, lips grazing mine like a dare, one I take with zero hesitation.

She kisses like she means to make me forget my own name. Like she doesn’t want tenderness; she wants escape—messy, rough-edged, breathless.

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