Page 13 of Play the Last Card

I shake my head as I reply, “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Come on.” Flynn throws a friendly fist into my arm. “You signed the deal. You’re here now. Let’s make the most of the rest of the break before the season starts and we’re too tired and too busy to remember our own names.”

I wipe the sweat off my face with a towel.

“One drink?” Flynn asks, sounding hopeful.

“I don’t drink.” I scowl at the floor. Throwing the towel toward my gym bag.

“Youhardlydrink. I still remember that time in college that you almost pu—”

I look up at Flynn, defeat dropping my shoulders. “Fine.” I stand, slapping a hand across my friend's shoulder. “Fine. One drink,one. I mean it Flynn.”

“Done.” A boyish grin takes over his face.

“Let’s just go across the road though,” I suggest. Maybe she’s working today. School isn’t back, it’s still summer. I stretch, my musclesgroaning at me for a hot shower and my couch. “I’m too dead on my feet after this morning's pick-up game to go too far.”

One smile from Ivy, my little football hater, will make my body hurt less.

Flynn follows me to the showers. “Wherever you want man.”

***

Pats comes into view, neon signs lighting up the window even though the early evening sun still hangs low in the sky, and my heart speeds up. Walking past this bar is my favorite part of my evening routine but nerves still shoot through my body.

I hate the feeling.

But I also kind of love it.

It’s been a long time since I felt a buzz of excitement at the prospect of seeing a woman.

I want to see her. I really,reallywant to and I don’t even know her last name. I should’ve asked for her number the other night.

Or her last name.

Or both.

Definitely both.

Why didn’t I ask her?

Oh, that’s right.

Football.

It’s the thought of the pre-season, of being on the road again, of being away more often than I’m at home that held me back the other night. I’d pondered our prospects after she’d left me in the alleyway. She doesn’t like football, fine. She’s not interested in the game, no problem. But it’s a huge part of my life—the biggest part—and any sort of relationship is surely going to be impacted by the fact she can’t stand my job.

Am I thinking too far ahead? Maybe.

She probably doesn’t even like me like that.

Doubtful.

Besides, the thought of breaking the routine I’ve subconsciously created—the one where I search for her between the dusty blinds behind the front windows and scan the bar for a glimpse of her honey brown hair every night while walking pointlessly around the neighborhood—makes my lungs constrict.

I’m not an idiot.

Ivy.