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Only four hundred and seventy-one more points until I could walk away.
CHAPTER FOUR
EDEN
He was a damn sour patch kid.
One moment I saw nothing but passion in his eyes, and the next he was calling me a lost little lamb and distancing himself from me.
This was not what I expected when I agreed to play him for the money I’d lost, money I’d already played for and won. I should have just walked with the hundred I’d already made, but I couldn't turn down the opportunity to stash away some money for a rainy day.
There was also the fact that this man had me by the lady balls with the need to understand him. He’d stepped in when he didn’t need to protect me; he goaded me into playing, flirted openly, and then shut me down at every turn.
But he didn’t leave.
I felt the heat of his stare when my back was turned, and every time he walked past me to the throwing line, it was always close enough that his arm brushed mine. Each time, I caught the faint scent of sage and rain clinging to his skin.
That was all he gave me though.
We’d gone four rounds of throws in awkward silence, and there was no missing the way he shut down every attempt at small talk.
Well, fuck that. I didn’t know his endgame but I knew mine, and I wanted his story. I had three years of music to write, and his tragic tale was the perfect start. I could already hear the deep bass lines pounding in my mind.
When I could no longer endure his broody stare, I allowed the alcohol to fuel my confidence and boldly asked, “Who was she?”
His eyes popped up from where he stared at his beer on the table. “What?”
“You offered to play me for the money, but I’m not just going to kick your ass in silence. So tell me, who was the woman who sent you here and left you feeling like you had to find the bottom of a bottle when you are so clearly the knight in shining armor that needs to save the damsel in distress?”
He hesitated before picking up his second shot and tipping it back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then pick something else to bullshit me with, because this isn’t how this is going.”
“Football.”
“You’re a fan?”
He shrugged. “Not implicitly.”
“Then what is there to discuss?”
“This guy,” he tipped his head up to the screen on the wall that had a panel of experts discussing a popular player who was getting the shit end of the stick. “He’s worked his ass off to be the best quarterback. His coach drafts a new running back the same year so they can learn to read each other from the get-go. They become one; they are so in sync with each other that they can run plays with their eyes closed, knowing the other person is going to be where they are supposed to be.”
“Right.” I casually nodded, though I had no idea where he was going with this. I knew people, not sports.
“Now the running back is a star, and is being scouted by every other team, made offers, same as the quarterback. The quarterback has always said they’re a package deal, but the running back doesn’t have the same morals. All he sees is dollar signs and he jumps ship.”
“It’s shitty,” I scoffed and sipped my beer.
“It is. The question is what does the quarterback do now?”
I can only guess this is a metaphor for whatever the hell this woman put him through, but my answer remains the same. “He moves on. Starts over.”
“What if that’s not an option?”
“Moving forward is always an option.”
“Forward, yes, but it will never be the same.”
