Page 19 of End Game
“Will you play catch with me?”
“What?” I laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Finn’s not here and I have no one to play with.”
“Branch,” I say, holding up my hands, “football is not my thing.”
“It doesn’t have to be your thing. You just have to catch the ball and then throw it back to me.”
Plopping my stuff back down on the sand, I shake my head. “I know how to play catch. That’s not the point.”
“Then you have no excuse,” he says, hopping to his feet. “Come on.”
He reaches down, extending a large, rough hand. His fingers have obviously been broken a number of times, different digits extruding different ways. It’s kind of gross and kind of sexy, but before I can think about it too much, my hand is in his and he’s yanking me to my feet.
Jogging down the beach, he stops and faces me. I’m half afraid I’m going to stand here and gawk at him and get hit upside the head like in a cheesy romantic comedy. I see how that happens now. It’s a real thing.
He brings his arm to his side, the cuts in his arm muscles on full display as he brings the ball to his ear and launches it my way. It’s fast and hard and I catch it like the professional’s little sister that I am.
“Hell, yeah!” he says, beaming. “You can catch a ball too?”
“Did you forget who I am?” I place my fingers on the laces like Finn taught me when I was ten. Pulling it back to the side of my head, I let it sail back with a flick of my wrist.
I’ve never thrown a more perfect spiral than this pass. Branch stands, arms to his sides, as he watches it spin through the air. Just before it almost hits him in the chest, he swipes it out of the air.
“Color me impressed.” He tucks the ball at his side. “Did Finn teach you that?”
“Of course. Who else?”
He winds the ball back and throws it to me again. “Maybe Callum?”
“Callum didn’t teach me anything,” I say, snapping the ball out of the air. “He was too busy doing other things. And other people.”
I toss it back to him.
“Now you don’t know that,” he jokes. “He might’ve been meeting friends for coffee.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” I catch his pass. “Because if so, you’re doing a damn good job.”
“Don’t be pissed at me. I’m not the asshole who cheated on you.”
“But you would, wouldn’t you? I mean, don’t you all?”
He snags the pigskin and stands still. “I’m offended you’d lump us all together like that.”
“You are not.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he chuckles, passing the ball to me again. “I’m not. But, no, I don’t think everyone cheats. A large percentage, probably. But I don’t cheat because I don’t make commitments. See? Problem solved.”
I’m about to tell him what a bullshit answer that is . . . until I think about it.
“You know what? I think you’re right,” I tell him.
“I am?”
“Yeah, I’m as amazed as you.”
He narrows his eyes, but a smile plays on his lips. “It saves you so much time and pain. If they do something stupid, not your problem. If you don’t want to go to the movie to see some crazy shit, who cares? If you want to have your cock sucked by a stripper on the Strip, so be it.”
