Page 42 of Hard to Score

“Which is why you want to move to California.”

He nods.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” I say and do. Regardless of the rocky relationship between my father and me, playing for the Raptors has afforded me the opportunity to be near him physically. My resentment of him and what he did to our family may be strong, but a part of me acknowledges his illness is a death sentence. The same part of me doesn’t want to look back on any time and regret that I wasn’t near.

It’s a constant balancing act mindfuck. Resentment against regret. Obligation versus love. Bitterness vying against forgiveness. The need to know he’s proud of me against needing to know the truth about what happened.

A battle I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“What do you mean you understand?” he asks.

“I just do.” I meet his eyes. “If Finn isn’t going to find a way to get you to California, find an agent who will. Remember, they work for you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

BREXTON

I STARE AT THE PHONE in my hand as if it’s going to give me answers, but yes, the doorman did just call and ask if one Drew Bowman can come up to my apartment.

And then chaos hits as I run to my bedroom and change my shirt. Then realize I have to change my bra because the black bra under the white tank top doesn’t look right. I spritz body spray in all places, dry shave my legs in a desperate attempt I know I’ll regret later, pinch my cheeks to add color, fluff my hair . . . and am completely out of breath by the time the doorbell rings.

I blow out a long, calming breath as anticipation hums through my veins.

Or at least I try to.

Drew Bowman is on the other side of that door. Does he have any idea how many nights I lay awake as a teenager hoping, wishing, wanting this scenario—for him to be standing on the other side of my front door and be there for me—only to be crushed because it never happened?

I put my hand on the knob and let it swing open.

And there he stands. Drew is leaning against the wall opposite my door. His hands are shoved in his pockets and when he sees me, a crooked smile plays across his lips. The same crooked smile I swooned over all those years ago is even more devastating now when accented by a little scruff, eyes full of desire, and a body made to sin with.

“I’m guilty,” he says raising one hand and breaking the stretch of silence between us.

“Is that so?” I ask, and he nods. “Guilty of what?”

“Everything.” He shrugs.

“That’s a broad statement.”

He purses his lips and nods again. “It is.”

I don’t hide the smile seeing him brings. “I get the feeling you’re coming to me drunk again. This is becoming a thing, Bowman,” I tease. “Should I be worried that you’re standing here tipsy?”

He shakes his head yes but then says, “I’m not drunk,” while his eyes roam the length of my body.

“No?”

“I only had one shot.”

“Only one?” I ask, fascinated by this peculiar conversation.

“Mm-hmm. I have my reasons.”

“And those are?”

“We’ll get to those in a second.” He pushes himself off the wall and steps into my personal space. He smells of soap and sandalwood and all I want to do is reach out and touch him. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he murmurs.

“How did you know where I lived?”