As an agent, I know better than to annoy a player when he is practicing. I do. Then why is it so damn hard to make my feet move one in front of another and walk away from him?
I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, turn my key in the ignition, sit there, and stare at the darkened lights towering over the practice field where Drew is.
Maybe I lost track of him on purpose. Surely we’ve crossed paths before at some point considering we work in the same industry. Of course, there are thousands of athletes and agents, but perhaps us missing each other wasn’t just a coincidence.
Maybe just like his life had been turned upside down when the shitstorm surrounding his dad happened, mine did too when my mom died two weeks later. Did he feel the same way? Like a part of his life—his innocence—was over, and everything he’d known as normal had changed? Was it easier for him to walk away and never look back?
Then again, maybe he’d already broken my heart way back when without ever knowing it, and therefore I avoided thinking about him, my first unrequited love.
One thing is for sure . . . the teenage boy I used to have a massive crush on ended up growing into an incredibly handsome man.
A man who seemingly doesn’t care about time lost.
And yet, there’s me, the woman who can’t stop thinking about him as I drive street after street on my way home.
CHAPTER TWO
DREW
YOU’RE GORGEOUS?
I pick up the football from the kicking tee and shuffle back a few feet on my heels, arm cocked back, eyes on the farthest target.
You’re gorgeous?
I release the ball and it sails two feet wide.
“Fuck!” I bark at no one. Steve stops midstride and looks my way before being cut down by my glare. He throws his head back and laughs at my miss, and I grit my teeth.
I’m never distracted. Never. And one fucking chat with Brexton goddamn Kincade and now I’m missing my mark?
What the hell, Bowman?
I run a cadence through my head before grabbing another football and going through my paces again. I hit the top of the target and the ball falls to the side of the catch net instead of inside of it. Fucking missed again.
Why would you say something like that to Bratty Brexton? Why would you tell her that she’s gorgeous after everything that happened? After everything . . .
“Christ.”
I lift my face to the night sky and take a deep breath to clear my head. But all I see are her mile-long legs, knockout body, and stunning face.
It’s true. She is gorgeous. It took me a second to process she really was Brexton Kincade because my memories of her are gangly limbs, a gap-toothed smile, a flat chest, and unruly hair.
It’s almost as if my mind has purposely skipped over that last summer we spent together. Like it never happened.
But that was a fluke.
That was two teenagers caught in a peer-pressure moment.
That was something I’d convinced myself never happened.
Until now.
Now she’s that. All woman, all desirable, all . . . Jesus Christ. This is Brex, we’re talking about here. I can’t be thinking about her like that.
I can’t be wondering how to hit on her when we used to run around like lunatic kids chasing fireflies in Allegheny on family summer vacations.
And I sure as shit can’t act on it.
Not after what happened.
Not after my life was turned upside down at the hands of her father.
And as another pass sails wide, I grunt in frustration.
Get any ideas out of your head, Drew.
You need to stay as far away from her as possible.
Her last name alone should tell you that.
CHAPTER THREE
BREXTON
I FEEL LIKE A STALKER.
Or rather, I am a stalker. How can I not be as I sit across the street from Drew Bowman’s house with the determination I had more than an hour ago now waning as reality sets in. As I wonder what exactly he’s going to think when he opens the door to find me on his doorstep.
But I can’t let this go.
Not the incredible talent I saw two nights ago or the notion that he’s sitting second string, when I know so many teams who would kill to have his arm behind their offensive line.
And while that’s all true, it’s also a huge lie. Major. Maybe I’m sitting here like a crazed fangirl because . . . I really want to see him again.
He was the boy’s face I pretended my pillow was when I “practice-kissed” it every night before I went to bed.
My first real kiss.
The boy I had wild fantasies about—holding hands, Homecoming dance date, college sweethearts.
All those things died a quick death when our lives irrevocably changed.
Maybe I never laid them properly to rest and right now I feel like if I see him again, I’ll know if I’m just manifesting something that doesn’t exist.
Besides, he called me gorgeous.
The hopeless romantic in me sighs at the words, at the soft smile on his lips when he said it, and ridiculously wonders if this chance meeting was meant to be.
But when it comes to matters of the heart, nothing good has ever come from my romanticism. Just a whole lot of heartbreak that had me swearing off love the last time it happened—a whole four months ago.
Good thing when I looked him up I found out he wasn’t married. Even better when I asked his teammate, my client, about Drew, he let it slip that Drew didn’t have a girlfriend.
Let’s hope that’s true or this might be super awkward.
Nonetheless, I shake my head and force myself to get out of my car. I’m here, I might as well follow through. The spiel I practiced in my head over and over—the one about how I’d be interested in representing him if he wasn’t happy with his current agent—Ari Longmire—is on repeat in my head as I put one foot in front of the other and cross the street.
His house sits in a quiet upper-class suburb across the Hudson. Mature trees line the street in front of perfectly manicured lawns. Drew’s house is large but not flashy with a ledgestone front and a massive wooden door. It sits back from the street on a large lot with perfect landscaping and stonework.
I’m not sure why this picture of suburbia surprises me. Maybe I expected a sleek condo overlooking Central Park for him, but I welcome the surprise.
Regardless, I’m standing here staring and shouldn’t be surprised if any of the neighbors in this high-end neighborhood have called the cops on the woman loitering on the curb.
That puts my ass in gear and has me walking up the long pathway to the front door where I ring the doorbell.
A dog barks somewhere down the street as my resolve wavers with each passing second.
A muffled, “Just a second,” can be heard from inside. My heart jumps in my throat and the stupidity of what I’m doing kicks in.
The lock turns.
The door rattles.
And when the door swings open, Drew Bowman is standing before me in a pair of Raptor sweatpants and nothing else.
I struggle to speak. I mean, no sane woman would blame me for my complete loss of intelligible thoughts if she were looking at the eight-pack of abs on display in front of me. I try not to look, I really do, but how can I not glance down when he’s there looking like that?
“Brex? What—how did you—what are you doing here?” Drew asks as he leans against the doorframe, casual as can be, and crosses his arms over his chest. And crosses them in the way that their sculpted firmness is innocently displayed.