Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(39)

She studies me. “You quote Carl Sagan, and you own a business. You have the best stats for a wide receiver in the league. Has someone said you aren’t intelligent? Has someone made you feel less than? Give me their name. I’m going to smack them around.”

“Savage, aren’t you?” I grin.

“When someone hurts you, yes.”

I smirk.

“It was a woman. I just feel it. Who was she?” She’s got her mouth pursed, a hand on her hip, and I don’t doubt for a second she’d hunt down my ex. “Come on; tell me. I told you about Bobby Ray, and you skirted over your first time. You owe me a story. I’ve told you so much!”

I open my mouth, then shut it, pacing around. I should tell her; it’s Giselle, and she’s brought me to a special place, and I like her . . . shit, no, I don’t like her like that—I can’t, I just can’t. I chew on my bottom lip.

“Dev?”

I throw my hands up. “Her name was Hannah. I met her first semester of my freshman year at a frat party. She played hard to get, and I chased her, waited for her after her classes, texted her, all that stuff. I thought I could just get her out of my system, but she was different.” A long exhalation comes from my chest. “Smart, working on a premed degree, and money, lots of family money. She was not my usual, though, not a fan of the party scene or into football. Finally, I convinced her to go out with me, and we fell in love. She didn’t care that I lived and breathed football, and I didn’t care that she spent a lot of time studying in the library. We just clicked when we were together. Our plan was for me to get drafted, her to start med school, then get married as soon as we could.”

A harsh laugh comes from me. “She dumped me at the beginning of senior year for a guy in her premed classes. Some nerd guy with arms like sticks who couldn’t run if a snail was chasing him, but he was really what she wanted; it just took her meeting someone smarter than me to know I wasn’t her future. They got married on spring break, and I flew to Cabo and got the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life. Spent the entire week covered in tequila and bikinis. Haven’t looked back since. She left me—just like everyone else.”

I stop, my chest rising. Shit, I just . . . spilled all that out. My throat bobs, and I try to shake off the past. I roll my neck as the silence builds. I raise my eyes to hers.

No pity there, just acceptance and a nod. “She was not your destiny, Dev. You’re meant for more. She did you a favor. Somewhere out there, a girl is waiting for you. She’s going to rock your world and give you so many little football-playing babies—no stick-armed kids for you. I promise you wherever she is, she still thinks about you.” Her gaze drifts over me, lingering. “Yeah, she messed up.”

“You gonna let me hit some shit or what? I’m ready.”

“One more for me.” Leaning over, she wiggles her ass and taps another mug shaped like a pair of boobs. “This is for Myrtle. She needs to get out of the hospital, and her daughter better check on her soon!” The club crashes into the glass and sends it off into the night.

Laughing, we bump into each other as we maneuver around, and I take her spot at the stump. She hands off the club and presses against me as she helps me adjust the goggles. With a satisfied smirk, she moves away to place another ugly vase on the stump.

“Where do you find this stuff?”

“Aunt Clara is addicted to yard sales. She picks them up and brings them here. Her secret boyfriend, Scotty, comes out and gets the pieces and uses them for mosaics.” She pokes me in the arm. “You can’t repeat that. He likes his manly persona too much to admit he does art in secret.”

I nod my agreement and whack the vase, and it disintegrates and scatters, the sound more satisfying than I imagined. “That felt good.”

“But you didn’t say what it was for.”

I cup my hands and call out, “Preston, you suck!”

“Go again, and do it for you,” she says sternly as she puts a teacup on the surface.

I swing the club and call out, “Hannah, hope you’re happy! I’m fucking famous! And rich!”

A bowl appears on the stump. She backs away, and I swing. “Get your life together, Dad!”

She puts an owl cookie jar up, and we burst out laughing. “Had to,” she murmurs. “It’s fate.”

“This one’s for you, baby,” I say and whack it. “Curses aren’t real!” I yell.

We keep up a steady pace, her putting up random glassware, me hitting. By the eighth one, I’m bouncing on my toes like I’m about to take the field, catch the ball, and run it in for a touchdown. “Addictive,” I murmur.

I shout whatever I feel like, from getting that Super Bowl ring on my finger to the Walmart dude who put his hands on Giselle, even though from the sound of it, she scared him with threats about her mama.

Another comes, then another.

I roll my shoulders, loosening the muscles. “What’s next?”

She places something on the stump.

Wrapped in purple tissue paper, the item is half the size of the palm of my hand.

“A gift for you,” she says, her face flushing, her eyes bright.

“Oh?” I prop the club against the barn, pick up the package, and stare down at it, pleasure mixing with adrenaline, heady and thick. “No one’s bought me a gift for no reason in . . . well, never.” My hands clench around it.