Page 46 of Play Maker

“Plural and no awkward exit.”

“Or hiding in the back of a Jeep.”

“Or losing my phone.”

I lean in to kiss her, and she leans back.

“Do you have a condom?”

This surprises me, but then I realize, “The belly button thing, that was a misfire.”But seriously cool.

“It’s just safer if you use one. I trust the BBT method more, but I didn’t get a chance to take my temperature this morning, and I’m not always regular.”

“The BB what?” I ask.

“BBT is a natural birth control method based on basal body temperature. We track our resting body temp before we even get out of bed to identify ovulation, since BBT slightly rises?—”

“Natural, as in, unprotected.”

“It’s not unprotected.” Her brow furrows. “It’s science and knowing your body.”

I look down as my dick literally retreats.

She notices, rolls her eyes, and gives me her back again. “Since we’re already sliding downhill again,” she says, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, “and you’re clearly judging me?—”

“I’m not judging you.”

She sits up, sharp, her voice rising with it. “You will. You’ll gasp, you’ll askhow is that possible, you’ll act like I’ve committed a federal offense for not saying, ‘Hey, before you shove that big dick of yours in me?—’”

“I’ve just never heard of BBT,” I cut in, palms up. “That’s all. I?—”

“I was the holder of the oldest V-card in Blue Valley.” She whispers. “Practically a damn relic … until last night.”

I freeze. And yeah, I do every single thing she said I would. Just on the inside.

My breath catches. My brain stutters. My stomach drops straight through the floorboards.

She cocks her head, waiting for the overreaction. But I don’t give it to her. Not because she’s wrong, but because, suddenly, nothing about this feels casual anymore. Not her mouth. Not her bed. Not the fact that I’ve been walking around like I earned last night when really? She gave it to me. And not because it doesn’t hit me like a goddamn freight train—it has. It’s still hitting.

She continues staring at me. Sitting here in nothing but a flannel, legs folded, hair messy, eyes blazing, like she’s daring me to be the thing that confirms her worst fear. Thatgivingthat part of herself was a mistake. And if I think about it, she’s not wrong, but I’m not thinking of that, of my past, of this day, or waiting on a contract, or playing against Cross in a few days. I’m staying in the present right now because nothing, not one thing I have going on right now is worse than what I have been through. And, for once, I’m going to bathe in it so I have something to remember that isn’t completely fucked.

“You thought I’d get pissed?” I finally ask, voice lower than I mean for it to be.

She shrugs one shoulder, jaw still tight. “Guys tend to havefeelingsabout it.”

“What kind of feelings?”

She’s looking down, face behind a curtain of hair. “The kind where they pretend they’re cool, then it’s suddenly a big thing. Or they think it means something it doesn’t. Or they act like they didn’t try ridding themselves of the virgin stigma in middle school. I mean, I could have, but I’m related to half the town, and the other half feels like family or just ew. High school was no different than middle, and sports meant more than trying to decide who I felt would be cool to pluck my petals.”

I bite my lip to stop from smiling.

She lifts a shoulder and continues, “I was all about sports until I realized women in sports get screwed, and I like art just as much. I got a scholarship, played D1, but not to make the Olympics, but because I loved field hockey.” She blows a long breath upward, moving some of her hair. “D1 sport, dual major?—”

I push her hair back behind her ear so I can see her face and ask, “What did you major in?”

“Psychology and graphic design. You?”

“Kinesiology. And psych.”

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