“Yes.” I pull the iPad he’s extended from his hands. “Please tell us how. Do you remember when Gavin Pope fell ice-skating? I cannot be responsible for something like that. Got it, Howard?”
“Got it,” he says, but his laughter does not make me feel like he’s taking me seriously.
“I’m serious.” I look away from Quinton and aim my attention at our new bearded friend. “Tell him I’m serious. This cannot end with him losing a finger.”
“We haven’t lost any fingers yet, and I’ll make sure it stays that way,” he says, but also looking like he’s going to laugh.
We’re throwing freaking axes, for goodness’ sakes! I can’t be the only person who sees this going very, very badly!
I narrow my eyes at both of them before focusing on the man who works here. “I didn’t get your name yet.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m Brett.”
“Alright then, Brett.” I move my finger between the two of them. “It is literally my job to spin stories in my favor. If this goes wrong, you and this guy”—I point to Quinton—“are going to be the only names mentioned. I was never even here.”
“I promise that nothing will happen.” Brett holds up three fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Oh great.” I roll my eyes as I start filling out the waiver form. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”
Thirty-two
“That was bullshit and you know it.” I glare at Quinton from the passenger seat as he drives under the streetlight-lined highway.
“How so?” He laughs like he’s been laughing since we got our total scores from axe throwing. “You’re the one who made the bet, not me.”
“Then you should’ve let me win and then lied about letting me win.” I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point. Losing brings out the worst in me.
“I don’t think I’m wired to do that.” He drops a hand from the steering wheel and rubs my leg. “Even for someone who looks as distracting in leggings as you did.”
“I appreciate your attempt to distract me by implying that my butt looks good in leggings. I’ll let it go . . . for now.” Between the compliment and the way his hand is steadily moving north up my leg, he has discovered the only way to lick my wounds. “Just know that the next time we have a competition I get to pick the event and there will be no throwing involved.”
“Fine by me,” he says. “Just remember that I also lettered in track and swimming.”
“Swimming?” I feel like I know a lot about him, but this is a total shock. “I would’ve assumed you played basketball.”
“Nope, I was good at basketball, but I loved swimming.” He squeezes my leg before putting his hands back on the wheel. “My mom signed me up for swim team when I was a kid. She said she wanted me to be a good swimmer because she didn’t learn until she was an adult, but I’m pretty sure she just wanted to wake me up early and wear me out during the summers. I was actually really good at it. Got offered a scholarship and everything before deciding to go with football.”
“Seriously?”
The world is so unfair. I had to write what felt like a billion essays to apply for scholarships and he just had them handed to him. And not only did he get all the football talent, but he got it in swimming too? Plus he’s hot? What kinda bullshit is that?
“Yeah.” He shrugs as he takes the exit to his place. “I wanted to find a place with a pool here, but it’s almost impossible in Colorado.”
“Yes, the harsh winters,” I say. “That’s the reason I’m not a great swimmer.”
“Shit.” He looks out the window as if only just realizing where we are. “I didn’t even ask you. Do you want to come over or did you want me to take you home?”
“I’d love to come over if that’s okay with you.” I was secretly hoping we’d keep the date going, but I wasn’t sure because his next game is away. “Don’t you have to travel tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but we don’t have to get to the facility until noon, so I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure then.” I pick at my nails, suddenly nervous even though I’ve been over to his house many times before.
“I’m sure.” He links his hand in mine and his touch makes all of the nerves disappear.
We pull into his garage and he grabs me a Diet Coke before walking into his house. The fact that he’s been buying them this entire time still blows my mind.
“Wanna order some food?” he asks as he kicks his shoes off in the laundry room that doubles as a mudroom.
“Sure.” I’m never going to turn down food. Ever. “I’m not really in the mood for anything specific, so you can pick.”
“There’s a good Chinese place that I order from. Is that okay?”
“Yup.” I follow him into his house. “I pretty much love all food, so that sounds good.”
“A woman who eats, you must be after my heart,” he says as he walks into his kitchen and pulls out a menu from one of his many drawers. And even though he hasn’t decorated . . . like at all . . . it’s nice to know he’s still human enough to have a junk drawer filled with takeout menus.
“Oh yeah, you know me. Taking down men one order of fried rice at a time.”
I have to admit, it’s nice that we started out as friends—or not friends at all—and I was able to skip that whole awkward “should I order a salad or not” phase of a relationship.
“You want to pick something or do you want me to surprise you?” He waves the menu in front of my face.
“Surprise me,” I say. “You’ve done a pretty good job of it so far.”
“And there are so many surprises I’ve been hiding.” He winks at me and I’m pretty sure my legs go numb. “Why