Page 17 of Just One of the Groomsmen
It was one of the few times he’d ever seen her cry, and he’d felt totally helpless.
Forget being above playing dirty.
People needed to learn that the real world could be tough, small town or not. Especially if that person was trying to take advantage of his best friend.
“I’m sticking around for a while,” Tucker said, nice and firm, for both their sakes.
Sara tugged on her uncle’s arm—she could tug a little harder in Tucker’s opinion—and at long last, he started away from them. But not before shooting Addie one more smile and saying, “I’ll call you so we can set up a time for Saturday night.”
Addie’s cheeks colored, more embarrassment than attraction, he hoped, but he couldn’t tell.
He used to be able to read her better, and he hated that he’d lost the key somewhere along the way.
Finally, most everyone had cleared the field, the fold-up chairs and blankets gone from the sidelines. Tucker helped Addie gather the supplies and put them in the back of her truck.
She glanced up at him, shook her head, and then tapped the bill of his hat. “Seriously, that thing needs to be put out of its misery.”
“I’ll give it up just as soon as you give up your Falcons sweatshirt.”
“You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers. I’d put it on just to spite you if it wasn’t so freaking hot this afternoon.”
He sort of wished she would.
The bulky hoodie helped her stay in the ambiguous category she belonged in. Probably wouldn’t cover those legs, though.
Stop thinking about her legs.
He pulled a soccer ball out of the bag and bounced it on his knee. “Have time for a quick game?” He bounced it on his knee again, and she swiped it out of the air.
That challenging gleam lit her eyes, the familiar one that meant they were about to have a whole lot of fun. “Against the guy who’s sat in an office the past few years getting soft and out of shape? Hell, yeah.”
Maybe he hadn’t lost the key after all.
Chapter Five
“This is so, so much cheatin’!” Addie kicked her feet, but since Tucker had lifted her off the ground, it didn’t propel her toward the goal, and the ball was out of reach as well.
“You called me soft,” he said, kicking at the ball and nearly dropping her.
She clung on to the forearm clamped around her midsection, and between the muscles there and the firm planes of his chest pressing against her back, there was no softness to be found.
“Okay, so you’re not soft, just a giant cheater.” She elbowed him in the gut, satisfied at the grunt he let out.
His arm loosened a mere fraction, enough for her to duck out of his grip and kick the ball. She raced for the goal, her heartbeats right on top of each other, and went to kick it home.
Dang Tucker got in the way—he was even faster than she remembered—and they devolved into a shoving and tripping match that would have any ref calling them for fouls, and possibly even tossing them out for misconduct.
Using every ounce of strength she had, she shoved him again and kicked the ball. He dove to block, and she dove on top of him to blockhisblock. They hit the grass hard, a pile of tangled limbs.
She groaned. “This didn’t hurt as much when we were kids.”
“Who’s soft now?” he asked, but his ragged breaths made it clear he was as tired as she was.
She noticed the ball had landed just short of the goal line and, not one to lose, she launched herself over Tucker’s prone form and bumped it with her fist.
Tucker wrapped his hand around her upper arm, but he was too late.
The ball rolled over the white line and she let out a whoop of victory.
