Landon’s top lip curls. “It’s so weird that you refer to us asbig boys.”
I lean forward, and hold up my fingers as I tick off each of my points. “I can outrun you. I can outplay you. And I don’t need a dick to outscore you.”
Patrick scoffs. “You couldn’t score on me.”
Evan chuckles. “You sure about that?”
Patrick shakes his head, adamant in his confidence. “There’s no way a girl is scoring while I’m guarding the net.”
This is the way most of males in sports think. I know this. This isn’t anything new. And on one hand I get it, because there are clear differences in size and strength between men and women.
But fuck does it irritate me down to my core that this prick thinks I couldn’t score on him solely because of my gender.
Landon watches me like he can read my mind, those soft brown eyes always seeming to see into my thoughts.
“You should come to practice sometime,” Landon says, locking eyes with me across the table. “I’d love to see you shut his mouth right up.”
I chuckle, but the thought takes hold of me. “Maybe I should.”
“My money’s on you,” Evan says around a giant bite of pizza.
If I can beat the best girls in the state...
Why couldn’t I play with the boys?
Chapter 9
Ainsley
Present
My finger hoversover the doorbell, a slight shake to it before I press the button.
I’m about to step across enemy lines.Literally.
At least Landon’s mom is nice. She always says hello when we run into each other in town. Then again, she could just be polite. I don’t know if her opinion of me has changed over the years. Moms are loyal. If Landon hates me, she probably does too.
The door swings open, and Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes light up. “Ainsley Morgan, oh my goodness. Look at you.”
I step inside and into her open arms, unable to avoid the tight hug she’s forcing upon me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I pull back and offer her a genuine smile. “Well, that makes one out of two Fletchers.”
She scoffs and waves her hand. “Nonsense. Come on, the girls are out back.”
As I’m led through the house, nostalgia slams into me. It’s like I’m a teen again. My eyes sweep over the pictures decorating the light-grey walls. Photos of Landon as a child hang in astaggered row, along with a collage of school photos from each year. Everything looks the same as it did in high school, except for several empty spots; blank spaces with nails sticking out of the sheetrock where picture frames used to be.
Where are all the pictures of Landon’s father?
“Coach Ainsley!” several of the girls cheer when I step out onto the patio in the backyard.
My hand arcs in a big wave to everyone. Wearing black basketball shorts and a teal Breakwater High t-shirt, Landon keeps his back to me, facing the grill and flipping burgers.
I pull down the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. “Mrs. Fletcher, maybe you should grill my burger for me. I don’t know if I trust your son not to poison me.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” She laughs and squeezes my forearm. “And call me Marie, please.”
Landon glances at me over his shoulder, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “You’re safe with my mom here.”
