Kayla laughs, but so do half the guys as they go back to the locker room.
I give Fletch a grateful nod, but he just mutters something under his breath and walks off like there isn’t enough money in the world for this nonsense.
I set Kayla down and put my hands on the dip of her waist.
“You tempted me here. Now what do you want with me?” I ask her. I keep the teasing note in my voice, because I’m afraid of what I’ll sound like without it.
Desperate.
Hopeful.
Absolutely head over heels.
When she texted me this morning, sounding so inviting, I wondered if she was joking. The old me would have shrugged it off, would have felt sick over that kind of text. Teased. Taunted, even. I would have shown up to find Serena dancing with another guy while maintaining it was all just for fun, nothing happened. And I would’ve forced myself to believe the lie.
I was tempted to think the same thing today. To assume she was secretly having the time of her life with Aldridge. Reconnecting with him. Maybe playing us both against each other because she could.
Listen, I can’t shake the fear that I’m only in Kayla’s life right now because I’m the best available option. It’s too ingrained.
But Kayla isn’t cruel. She isn’t a shark looking for blood.
She may not love me—she may not be as far along as I am already—but she wouldn’t hurt me. She may send flirty, teasing texts, but she wouldn’t toy with my feelings.
So I decided to believe her.
To accept her invitation, take it at face value, and drive.
It’s funny how trust isn’t always a feeling, but a decision. A choice of faith over fear.
An act of courage.
Kayla’s stomach growls so loudly, we both laugh.
“Is there a tiger in your stomach, or are you just happy to see me?”
She wrinkles her nose, like what I said was either too adorable or too cheesy to handle. “I’m starving.”
“I saw a smoothie place about a half-mile?—”
“Actually,” she says, stopping me with a hesitant, hopeful smile. “I had something else in mind.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re parking in front of a barbecue joint that looks like the last place Kayla Carville would ever walk into. Except, when I glance at her now—wearing my jersey, a Mudflaps cap, and a pair of leggings that make her legs look like they just don’t stop—I’m not so sure. Maybe she’s never felt like she could eat at a place like this.
Maybe she’s always wanted to try.
Hand-in-hand, we walk up to Big Hank’s Hog Heaven, a dive if I’ve ever seen one—tin roof, worn wooden floors, and a neon pig in the window that’s missing part of its tail. It’s the kind of place where the menus haven’t changed in decades, the sweet tea is served in giant mason jars, and every table’s faintly sticky, even after it’s washed. But the smell of hickory smoke, slow-roasted pork, caramelized molasses, and warm cornbread is enough to make both our mouths water.
With a line that goes all the way out the door.
“What is that smell?” she says when we get to the back of the line.
“You’ve never had barbecue before?”
“Now you’re just being silly,” she says, bumping me with her hip. “My family is rich, not dead. But there’s something different to this. It doesn’t have that mustard or vinegar smell.”
“Tennessee barbecue is tomato-based.”
“I think I like it better already.”
