‘But you made it.’ He smirks his smug smirk, jesting, daring me to give in. God, he’s always made it so easy. He leans in and meets my eyes as if he wasn’t talking to a substantial group of people just moments before. ‘You made the time.’

‘Maybe.’ I lean in, returning his gesture, and glare right back up at him. I pretend I can’t smell every note of his cologne from this close. ‘I made the time ’cause I felt bad when I watched you bin shots any pro should’ve been able to make blindfolded.’

Chapter Seven

Scuff Your Boots

Colt

Well. She still likes to go straight for the jugular.

May sits back, either exasperated or smug. I could never tell which one was which. That, among other things, it seems, hasn’t changed.

I attempt a flawless recovery that doesn’t come off so flawless when I clear my throat awkwardly. ‘So. Your senior year.’

‘Yeah,’ she says tightly. ‘Last season here.’

‘That’s … big. Coach and I were talking.’

‘Great.’ Her tone is dry as the Sahara. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be your senior year?’

‘Doing an MBA.’ I gulp down a sip of beer. ‘I wrapped up my degree early once I got drafted.’

‘Nice.’ Another empty one-word May-ism. She crosses her arms with a sharp exhale. ‘I’m not here for chitchat. Go on.’

The whiplash this conversation is causing me throws me off for a minute, but once I register what she’s asking of me, the words tumble right out.

‘I meant it. When I apologized.’ I don’t have to pour every ounce of my effort into it, because it comes out anyway. It comes out whenever I talk to her. The hint of alcohol trekking through my body makes it even easier. ‘I am really, truly sorry, May. I really am. I know my words aren’t a reason for you to excuse the way I left. The way I left you. But—’

‘We were young. Shit happens.’ She thanks the bartender when he slides her drink to her and takes a liberal sip, turning her body towards him. ‘Good stuff, Cain.’

I find it funny that she says that. Shit happens, but at least to me, it’s still happening. Definitely still happening when I start to notice things like the way her jeans hug her thighs, cinched by the gold-buckled belt around her waist, the way her black tank top exposes her strong arms and clings to the curves of her torso, edges both soft and defined, the way dimples etch her cheeks when she smiles at the bartender – smiles at the bartender? The bartender’s getting smiles? I tune into the conversation with a cut of my eyes.

‘… play Mayfair this year,’ he’s saying. ‘You’re going to kill it.’

‘Thank you!’ The smile again. Dimples. She raises her glass. ‘Here’s to it.’