Page 32 of Game Changer

“No. Yes,” she amends.

I leap forward, cutting off her path. “How the fuck can you not know if you’re engaged?”

A lot of people think athletes are into cheating, but I’m not. Even the idea of it makes me seethe.

I mean what I told Jay, that I’m not looking for a distraction, but I hate thinking she might be someone else’s to stare at out of the corner of their eye.

To write their number on.

To wonder what it is about her that makes the air change when she’s near.

Nova shrugs, looking small and younger than before.

“He left without saying goodbye. But technically I didn’t have a chance to give him the ring back, so…”

My anger shifts targets to whatever prick hurt her.

“He was an asshole.”

She wraps her arms around her, the breeze blowing her hair. “Maybe I’m the asshole. He was successful and independent. He said all the right things. Mari liked him.”

“You’re not the asshole.”

“How do you know?”

“Just do.”

Her lips curve in the dark. Her breathing is steady and even.

“My parents used to say I had the worst taste in guys. But they died in a plane crash three years ago.”

She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s telling me the weather or her favorite color.

Nova shifts past me to start scaling the rows of seats again.

It bothers me that she has no one. No parents, no boyfriend, a sister she’s on strained terms with.

Doesn’t mean she’s yours.

A dozen yards ahead, she slips, her hands breaking her fall. I hear her sharp intake of breath and the hitch that tells me she's hurt.

Shit.

I quickly scale the seats between us, then sit on the dirt next to her. I push up her sleeve to feel her wrist with my fingers, each joint and tendon. There’s nothing seriously out of place, but a little whimper escapes her when I press harder.

“Sorry,” I mutter, not sure whether I mean for hurting her or for everyone else who has. “Ice it when you get home unless you want it to blow up on you by morning.”

“Thanks.” Nova leans back until her back kisses the dirt, cradling her arm across her chest.

I’m memorizing every line of her silhouette, the feel of her breath light on my skin.

“I bet you never get caught up in your own head," she says. "Never question yourself. Girls would probably sell their left tit to date you.”

“Sucks because the left is my favorite.”

Her laugh is warm and bright.

I can’t remember the last time I talked this much to anyone. About anything real, anyway.

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