Page 25 of One Spicy Summer

Old habits.

Inside, Agatha has me playing dress-up. I’m her real-life black Barbie, and honestly? I love it.

* * *

Later, we’re in her car, heading to the game.

“You’re coming to the afterparty, right?” she asks, all hopeful eyes and anticipation.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say with a grin, and I mean it.

“There’s Kammie and Jace, being adorable as usual,” I point out as we spot them waving us down. They’ve been dancing around their feelings for years, but everyone can see what’s really going on. It’s cute.

Not that I’m one to talk.

The guy I’ve been crushing on has been practically family since we were kids, and I only recently let that secret out. Rygaard isn’t just a crush, he’s the blueprint.

“Looks like we’ve got the best seats in the house,” Agatha says, motioning toward the field.

From here, we can see everything, and everyone.

The Cedar Creek Cougars are killing it this year, and the energy is electric.

“I hope my outfit doesn’t distract anyone from playing their best,” I tease.

“Whoa, Presley and the crew showed out tonight,” Ethan calls from the bench. “Wiley, looks like you and your girl made up!”

I glance at Wiley and catch the look. We lock eyes.

Agatha nudges me. “Girl, wipe that grin off. Someone saw that look.”

“What look?” I ask, playing dumb. Too late.

Rygaard is already stalking toward us, a frown etched across his annoyingly perfect face. He grips the railing, pulls himself up onto the bleachers, not caring who he steps over.

He’s on a mission.

Me.

“Care to explain what the fuck you have on, Presley?”

Chapter Twelve

Rygaard

The Friday night lights blaze across the field as we brace ourselves for another brutal quarter. We’re getting our asses handed to us, and none of us can fucking believe it.

“What the fuck is going on out there, guys?” Coach Wilson shouts, red-faced and furious. “Get your heads in the fucking game or you’re gonna blow this!”

Yeah, great pep talk, Coach. Real motivational shit.

The guys are tense, hungry, and ready to swing back hard.

So am I.

But I can’t shake the knot in my chest. I haven’t seen Presley all day, and it’s fucking killing me. I sat out the first half because I absolutely couldn’t play without her.

She’s probably running late, dance class, most likely, but still, not seeing her before the game? It throws me off. I need her. It’s been a tradition since I started playing football, every game day, she presses her lips to my temple and whispers, “Go get ‘em, tiger,” and I always answer the same.

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