But not as much as I do.
He might belong to the team, and he might belong to the city, but in the morning, and then later at the end of the night, Drew belongs to me. You might even say we havetwo-a-days.He moved in with me a few months ago, and when he comes home from practice, we cook together. Or we talk. Or we fuck.
Sometimes, we do all of the above.
Who am I kidding? Most nights, we do all of the above.
Tonight, though, we’re going to the pier to play some games. It’s kind of our thing—Skee-Ball and Whac-A-Mole and movies. And talking endlessly about all of them.
We pack up as the sun fades, then after I shower and change, we head to Santa Monica.
Out on the pier, as the moon rises in the spring sky, I take him on in a game of Whac-A-Mole. “I will reign victorious,” I shout.
I raise the mallet to pound one of the critters, but I don’t see Drew.
Where did he go?
When I spin around, mallet in hand, I gasp.
He’s on one knee, a velvet box in his hand, his hazel eyes flickering with vulnerability and hope.
Is this real?
My heart thunders. My bones sing.
Yes, this is so damn real I’m trembling with happiness already.
“Brooke Holland, I love playing games with you every day and every night,” he says, his tone solemn and full of tenderness too. I’ll remember the way he sounds right now always. “You challenge me, you make me a better man, and you make me so damn happy.”
“You make me so happy too,” I say, my voice breaking with joy.
“Will you be my wife?”
My heart climbs up my throat as I nod over and over, and I just can’t stop. “Yes, yes, yes. I would love to marry you.”
When he flicks open the box, a brilliant diamond shines brightly at me as the moon glows on the stone. “It’s perfect for you,” he says reverently.
I sink to the ground as he slides it on my finger. “You’re perfect for me,” I say, emotions overflowing.
He cups my cheeks, kisses my lips, then smiles—that blinding smile that caught my eye the day I met him. That holds my attention every morning and every night.
Then he says, “I guess some guys do have all the luck.”
Gabe’s epilogue
I still can’t believe the shit that just went down with my ex. Hours later, out with my buddies playing poker, and I’m reeling a little bitin shock. But I’m damn grateful too that it’s all over, even in spite of that awful ending.
I shudder involuntarily at the memory of the way my ex stormed out of my home a few weeks ago, the horrible things she said. No —shouted. For my whole building to hear.
Then, as Drew asks if I’m all in on this hand, I shake off the memory. Screw exes. “I’m definitely in,” I say, then slide another chip into the pile on the table at The Happiest Hours, a bar in Venice — home of my so-called Free At Last party the guys are throwing me.
While we toast to moving on, I vow to focus on my one true love — football. This is my last year in the NFL and I don’t need anything keeping me company but the game.
I clink glasses with the guys, and as Drew shuffles the deck to deal the next round, my gaze strays to the window where a sexy-as-sin brunette chats on the phone as she walks a little dog down the street.
The woman’s got a swing in her hips and a pouty fullness to her lips. She looks like a piece of candy, all effortlessly delicious in tight jean shorts, cut off and raggedy sexy, and a purple halter top that shows off her pierced belly. I’d like to peel that top off her, lick a path between her tits and down her stomach, then tug on her belly ring with my teeth.
Even though I totally shouldn’t be thinking about that.