Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(38)

I rear back. “Say it isn’t so.”

She grimaces. “Yeah. Before I could say, Hey, you missed your target, an owl flew in—how, I don’t know. It headed straight for Bobby Ray, clawed him good—I mean sunk into his back like it was never going to let go. He rolled off me, fell off the bale, and hit his head on a rake. Thank God the tines were down, but he blacked out for a few seconds, maybe from the blood. He comes to and is puking and yelling, and I’m running from the owl. Finally, I get the doors open, and it flies off. I tell him he has a concussion, and we spend ten minutes just trying to get his pants on—that was fun—then hop on his four-wheeler. On the way to his house, I could barely see and steered us off into a pond.”

My mouth gapes. “You’re making this up.”

“Sadly, no. Dragged a hundred-and-eighty-pound grown man from the pond, nearly carried him back to my car—why didn’t we take it in the first place? I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and neither was he. Just thought we’d get to his house faster cutting across the field. Anyway, I’m almost to his house when a cop pulls me over for speeding. Well, Bobby Ray gave me a bloody nose when I was pulling his flailing body out of the water, so the cop took one look at the mess in the car—and us—and called an ambulance. Spent the night in the ER.”

She gives the wreath a sad look.

“He’s married now with a baby, so I guess he figured out where the vagina is. What’s really funny, and now I can find the comedy, is I never told him he did it wrong. He still thinks to this day that he took my V-card.” She giggles. “Your face is killing me. Let it out, Dev.”

My face splits in a grin, laughter spilling out as I try to talk in between breaths. “That’s the worst . . . almost-sex story . . . I’ve ever heard,” I gasp, clutching my sides. “Cursed is right. You need to see someone.”

She executes a curtsy. “I’m here every birthday for your entertainment. When was your first time?”

“At the drive-in, in the bed of my old truck, with a girl three years older than me. The place was closed, but I had keys to the gate.”

“Good experience?” Her tone is wistful.

Honestly, I can barely remember, except that I came too soon but went in again. “Yours will be, Giselle. With a guy who cares about you. Don’t get in a hurry.”

She stares at the wreath for several beats, her jaw working. “So you’ve said.” She swings her flashlight as she walks over to several container boxes, tearing them open and pulling out dishes.

“Here, carry this.” She points to a box she’s set some in, and I pick it up and follow her back out, then set the box down in front of a stump by the door.

She pulls a pair of goggles out from the box while “Body Like a Back Road” blares, and she hums along. “Get that club from the Hummer. Shit is about to get real.”

I do as she says, swinging the club as I walk back to her, wondering what the hell she’s going to do.

“Here, hold my beer.”

“Said every redneck before they wake up in the hospital.” I chuckle as I take it, and she slides on her goggles, sets a white mug on the stump, and picks up the club.

“Stand clear,” she says. After backing up a few paces, she arches her back, her stance confident and sure as she grips the club.

“This one is for my asshole advisor. The one who thinks women aren’t as good as men.” Swift and sure, she swings the club. Crack! The cup shatters, the pieces flying through the air.

I whistle, watching the glass fall. “Damn.”

A satisfied grunt comes from her as she snatches an old blue vase and slams it on the stump. “This is for Preston. Cheating sonofabitch,” she yells as she connects. The ceramic bursts as it sails across the field.

“Yeehaw!” I yell.

She pauses to take a drink of her beer, and my eyes eat her up.

“What?” she asks, threading the club through her fingers.

“You’re like every guy’s wet dream for a farm girl—you know that, right? It’s dark, we’ve got a barn, country music is playing, and your shorts are killing me.”

She moves her hips, making the frayed fringe swish. “I’ve washed them. I bought others, but these are my favorite.”

“You played sports, didn’t you?” I ask, taking her bottle, watching her line up with what looks like a candy dish on the stump. Confident. Efficient. Graceful. Hot.

“Volleyball. Considered a scholarship once, but I knew it would screw with my grades in college.”

“I went the other direction, chose getting drafted over a diploma. Never was a good student. The game took most of my time.”

She cocks her head. “Does it bother you that you didn’t finish?”

“Football, it’s always been enough . . .” I toe at a piece of gravel.

“But?” She leans on the club.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m set for life, but I wish I’d tried harder. Regrets, maybe?” I shrug. “It does feel like everyone around me is more educated—even Jack graduated with honors.”

“What does this insecurity stem from?” She’s lowered the club, giving me her full attention.

I grin, deflecting. “I don’t see a couch around here, Dr. Riley. Stop trying to analyze me, and hit something.”