Page 70 of Plays Well With Others

We go to the team meeting. Coach breaks down what went right and what went wrong. But at the end of the day what went wrong is this—the game slipped through our fingers.

Mine specifically.

* * *

When practice ends that afternoon, I drop off Cafferty at his home. As he grabs the door handle, he says, “Did you set an alarm to tell Rachel about the party?”

Oh, shit. I fucking forgot. “Thanks, man,” I say, then grab my phone and set it.

“No problem,” he says, then we knock fists.

I don’t talk about my ADHD with most of the guys on the team. There’s no need. I’m not interested in being a poster child for it. I’m not going to do commercials on living with it or succeeding at your highest level or whatever.

That’s not my shtick. It’s just something I have to deal with. Something I’vealwayshad to deal with.

But Beck’s different. He’s struggled with social anxiety and panic attacks. Sometimes, he still does. He’s shared some of his struggles with me, so I look out for him. And he looks out for me.

Guess I needed that today. Needed someone to accept my mood. I’m so damn used to being Mister Happy, to playing the ringleader. But it’s a welcome feeling, this space to be…a little off.

Not sure I can show it to anyone else though.

* * *

I really should put the game behind me this evening. It’s been twenty-four hours. I need to get over the loss. It ought to be easy to stop obsessing on it once I pick up Rachel for our farmers’ market date.

Especially since holy fuck, she looks amazing. “Look at you,” I say as I meet her at her door with awhoaand a whistle, then drink her in.

Rachel flashes me a sweet and borderline seductive smile. “Thanks,” she says.

And I just keep staring. She’s positively edible in those jeans and that black top that not only slopes off her shoulder, but reveals a hint of white lace.

In fact,thanks, fucking lingerie.Now I’m going to be hard all night at the market.

“You look pretty good yourself,” she says, eyeing me up and down in my Henley and jeans.

“Yeah, butyou,” I say, since I can’t stop complimenting her.

A blush creeps across her cheeks. “You’re too much. You make me feel too good.”

Pfft. “Not a thing,” I say, and yup, focusing on her is all I need. I won’t think about that stupid loss anymore. Won’t stew in my mood a second longer.

“Question?” I ask once I shut her door, then get into the driver’s seat.

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to torture me with your lingerie?”

“Oh. Is this torture?” she asks innocently, her gaze straying to the white lacy strap that’s on display.For me.

“Yes. It is,” I say, then fuck it. I run my finger along the strap, taking my time to brush along her skin too. “Pure torture,” I whisper.

Our gazes lock. Her amber eyes flicker, and they sayI meant it when I told you to kiss me anytime.

I lean in for a lingering, start-of-the-date kiss that puts my bad mood in the rearview mirror.

Except, as I drive to the market, I’m strangely distracted. Not by the game this time. Not by the instant replay in my head of the catch I didn’t make, but by the things I want to say to her.

The things I would have said a week ago. Like,I’m bummed about the loss, I feel like it’s my fault, and I wish I’d moved faster, tracked the ball better, reached higher.

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