Page 21 of Hometown Touchdown
I ignore him and yell, “Alright! Let’s switch to red zone reps—first team offense on the 20. Defense, line up and don’t embarrass me!”
Cam chuckles, standing there like a man who knows damn well he’s agitating me.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my shirt’s stuck to my back, my knee is barking like an old hound, and I’m pretty sure my right cleat has fused with the gas pedal.
All I want is a shower, leftovers, and to ice my soul. I slam the truck door shut and instantly regret it. My guys didn’t suck today. Which means Friday will either be miraculous or a public execution.
I’m halfway to my front door when I hear her call out, “Coach Grumpypants! You’re leaking.”
I pause, turning my head and my eyes finding Brynn. She’s sitting on her little front stoop like a damn Instagram post. Legs tucked under her, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, holding a half-melted popsicle that she’s licking a little too slowly. Orange. The worst flavor, but damn if she doesn’t fucking make it look good right now.
Brynn Marlow had always been a walking contradiction—sweet as pie and sexy as sin. Blonde hair that hit the middle of her back and always smelled like something soft and girly, even when she’d just rolled out of bed. Blue eyes that could freeze a man in his tracks, especially when they narrowed in confusion and her nose scrunched up in that way that earned her the nicknameBunnyyears ago—because hell if I didn’t want to kiss the confusion right off her face every time she made it.
She has the kind of body that can cause a room to fall silent. Toned, tight, made for trouble. Perky tits, firm ass, and those legs that went on for miles and looked even longer in the heels she wears like armor. Every time I see her, it’s like my body remembers before my brain can catch up. What she felt like under me. Around me. The sounds she made, the way she’d arch into my touch like her body was made for mine. I used to think I’d burn the world down to get back inside her. Now I’m just trying to survive breathing the same air.
She snaps me out of my inappropriate thoughts when she points the popsicle at me like it’s a sword. “Your water bottle is dripping all over your shorts. Looks suspicious.”
I glance down. Sure enough, my insulated bottle is wedged under my arm, sweating all over me. And yeah—looks like I’ve peed myself. Fantastic.
“Appreciate the heads-up,” I mutter.
She licks the popsicle—slowly—and grins. “Anytime, Coach.”
I debate walking away. Ishouldwalk away. But instead, I take a step in her direction.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, tone dry.
“Enjoying the rare warm evening,” she says, gesturing grandly. “Getting to know the neighborhood. I met a corgi named Meatball.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Oh, he is. He tried to eat a butterfly.”
Despite myself, a laugh almost escapes. Almost.
Instead, I look away. Because this isexactlyhow it used to start. Me giving her a hard time. Her giving it right back, with dimples and sass and no regard for my emotional safety.
She hums suddenly and says, “You always came home cranky after Wednesday practice. Even in high school.”
I stiffen.
She goes on, oblivious or cruel—I can’t tell. “You’d text me and say ‘Today was Hell Wednesday’ and I’d bring you a Mr. Goodbar and a Coke.”
I glance up, and she’s not smiling now. Just watching me. Like she remembers too much.
So do I.
Because I’d eat the Mr. Goodbar in the cab of my truck with my cleats still on and her legs on my lap. And she’d make dumb playlists titled things likeKnox Is A Tired Beefcakeand read off random horoscopes while we shared the Coke. She never made me share my Mr. Goodbar, but I always offered.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. Practice hasn’t gotten any kinder.”
“Nope,” she says. “But you’re still standing. That’s something.”
I nod once. “Goodnight, Brynn.”
I turn before I can say something stupid like, you still remember that?Before I ask if she ever thinks about gummy bears and my old truck and how her laugh used to undo me.
I get halfway to my door when she calls after me.
