The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(10)

“Uh, almost beat me is a stretch.”

“We were neck and neck there for a while. I can still hear Pops’s booming laughter over his grandson losing.”

“Once I figured out how to use my hips, I beat you.”

“Took you far too long.” She smiles.

“Doesn’t matter, I still beat you.” But she did give me a run for my money. I was out of breath by the end of the competition. And I thought it was going to be a cakewalk. Boy, was I wrong.

She flips the notebook over to the front page and reveals our running tally of wins. “Despite your attempts at cheating, looks as though I’m in the lead. Care to play some Dots and Boxes?”

“Same rules?” I ask.

“Would we ever play differently?”

I uncap my pen and say, “Not at this point. Let’s go, Allen.”

A huge smile stretches across her face as she flips to an open game. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first?”

“Obviously.” I hold my hand out, and together we say, “Rock, paper, scissors,” and throw down.

I go in with a classic rock and she tumbles over me with paper.

“You’re so predictable.” She grabs my fist with her “paper” and uncaps her purple pen. “Okay, get ready to lose, Smith.”

She makes the first mark and then, in silence, we go back and forth, connecting the dots with lines. Boxes start to form, strategic moves are made, and we don’t say a word to each other, the white noise of the airplane surrounding us.

With every move she makes, I counter, culminating in a long, narrow section that will make or break the game. I count ahead, looking at the marks I have to make in order to score the most boxes and . . .

Fuck.

She must realize it at the same time because now every line she makes has an extra sass to it, a little gusto to her pen strokes.

“Shit,” I mutter, making the final line, which grants her access to make enough boxes to not only take the lead, but take the win.

“Ahh, look at all these purples boxes,” she says, rubbing it in as she scribbles purple all over the gameboard until all the boxes are filled. When she’s done, she looks up at me and says, “As per the rules, I’m allowed to ask you anything, and you have to answer.”

“I think we should revisit those rules.”

She caps her pen and shakes her head. “No way. You agreed to the terms before we played.”

“That’s because I didn’t think I was going to lose. Now that I lost, I want to revisit the rules.”

“Warm towel?” a flight attendant asks, standing in the aisle with a tray of warm towels.

“Uh, sure.” Hazel accepts a towel, then hands it to me and quips, “Something to wash away your shame?”

Together we wipe our hands, really unclear about the whole towel thing.

“You know you’re living the fancy life when you’re given a towel to wipe your hands off before a luxurious meal of airplane duck.”

I chuckle. “Good thing we asked for a pizza from economy class.”

“Food choices are much better back with the peasants,” Hazel whispers. “Pringles and pizza—sign me up.”

When the flight attendant came around to ask what our choices were for our three-course meal in first class, Hazel and I asked if we could get a pizza and Pringles instead. The flight attendant gave us a wink and said, “No problem.” Thank God, because the “escargot” the gentleman across from us is eating looks less than appetizing.

The flight attendant retrieves the towels and hands us our drinks and mini-cans of Pringles. We each pop them open and take a bite. I catch the man next to us give us a look, and I’m pretty sure I see jealousy in his eyes as his attention falls back to his escargot.

“Okay, how many games do we plan on playing?” Hazel asks before popping a chip in her mouth.

With the pillow provided by the flight attendant wedged between my back and the airplane window, I can comfortably sit facing Hazel. She folds into her seat easily with her small stature, but it’s a little trickier for me, given my long legs and larger frame. But I’ve found a comfortable position and I’m riding it out until I start cramping up.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I have a long list of questions I want to ask you and I need to pick and choose the right ones depending on how many games we play.”

“Who’s to say you’re going to win the other games?”

She gives me a get real look. “Puh-lease, I could have won that game a lot sooner, but I took it easy on you. And stop trying to distract me. You owe me an answer.”

“You haven’t asked a question.”

She takes a Pringle out of her can and taps it against her lips. “Okay . . .” A devious smile pulls on the corner of her lips and I fear what she’s going to ask me. “Tell me, Crew, the day you ‘accidentally’ grabbed my boob while in the pond. Was it really an accident?”

“Oh, Jesus.”





Chapter Three





HAZEL





Crew Smith.

I was hoping he was going to be on this trip with me.

Praying, actually, because I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. Or going it alone.