Page 99 of The Overtime Kiss

Wanna go with me?

—T

My stomach flips. Forget last week’s words on what might have been. I’ll take these brand-new ones now on whatwill be, thank you very much.

I hold the card tightly and go inside, tucking it into the notebook by my bed, right with all the other ones he’s given me. The one from the morning after my not-wedding, the one from the gift of sheets, the one from the Sea Dogs hoodie. And the bag with yoga gifts.

At this rate, he’ll have a whole notebook to himself to go along with the sex diary. Fitting.

After I text him my yes, his words echo in my head for the rest of the day—Wanna go with me?They’re written, but I can hear them as clearly as if he’d spoken them. I can hear the vulnerability in this subtle way of asking me out.

Now, there’s something else I can’t wait for, and it’s not just because I love football. But as I swing open the car doorso I can pick up the kids, my phone buzzes. It’s an email from Elena, confirming our next appointment.

Hot shame washes through me. She encouraged me to turn my list-keeping habit around. To use it for good with my list of good things that have happened. Does that really include keeping track of sweet notes the man who signs my paychecks leaves for me?

I sink down in the front seat, pausing before I start the car so I can mull over what the hell I’m doing.

On the one hand, this whole sex list is ridiculously risky. But then, so is doing a triple loop with blades on my feet, and I still do those. I’ve done them for decades.

I confirm the next appointment, then head to the school.

“Are you kidding me? That was holding!” I shout from our sweet seats on the fifty-yard line. “Are you paid by the other team?”

The ref doesn’t answer me, of course. He just stalks down the sidelines, completely ignoring the way the Dallas team’s offensive lineman tackled the pass rusher—and seeming oblivious, too, to the sea of boos swelling around him.

Like the stocky Renegades fan in front of us, who sloshes his beer as he throws his hands up in frustration.

I snap my gaze to Tyler, but he’s already on his feet, a fierce energy radiating from him. “C’mon! That’s the second time you missed a holding call,” Tyler shouts to the field, chastising the officials.

The stocky guy in the Slater jersey (repping the Renegades quarterback Holden Slater) in front of us spins around. “Right? These refs suck,” he says.

“They’re worse than the refs who suck up to the entire Kansas City team,” I put in, pointing angrily past the sea ofblue and orange jerseys to the guys in black and white who are ruining this game.

Tyler scoffs, then snorts.

Oh. Did I just say that out loud?

The guy in front of us lifts his nearly empty beer cup in approval. “You called it. The refs are obsessed with KC.”

Tyler looks at me, eyebrows arching.

“Sorry, was that rude?” I deadpan.

Tyler just laughs. “To whom? The refs? Nope.” His eyes glint as he leans in closer, his shoulder bumping mine.

When we’re seated he slips his hand across my lap and into the pocket of my sweatshirt—it’s a Sea Dogs hoodie, the one he gave me before the team’s first home game of the season.

His fingers find mine inside the pocket, and he threads them together, sending sparks all over my skin.

Then, he shifts closer, his beard whisking across my cheek, his mouth near my ear. “Want to debate the refs some more?”

A shiver runs through me. Not from the words, but from his tone—low and raspy. “Is that code for something?” I ask.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, then sneaks in a nibble on my earlobe before pulling back, turning his attention to the field.

“C’mon, D! Let’s do this!” he shouts as the Renegades defense holds off the Dallas offense, forcing a punt.

He cheers, and a few minutes later, the offense is back on the field, the team’s quarterback leading the charge.

---