The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(47)

Hazel taps her temple. “Keep it locked in. Now you’ll know, whenever you run across this smell, you’ll understand there are ghosts around you, so if any freaky shit happens, like rooms turning and barrels moving, you’ll know . . . ghosts.” She whispers the last word.

“God, I’m so glad I’m here with you. I’m learning so much.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She holds up her glass as if it’s the holy grail. “To the ghosts.”

I hold up mine as well and clink. “To the motherfucking ghosts.”

We take a sip and . . . holy fuck. We lock eyes with each other—as best we can while spinning slowly—and that one look, that’s all we have to silently say. Yup . . . this is the Great.

This is once-in-a-lifetime wine.

And I get to enjoy it with Pops’s Hazel.

My Hazel.

My girl.





“Whoa, watch your step,” I say, laughing as Hazel tumbles into a wall.

Hands planted against the old stone wall, she says, “Where the fuck did that road come from?”

I help her to stand. “We’ve been walking on it this whole time.”

“Are you sure? Honestly, I thought we were riding on a bus a few seconds ago.”

“No, you galloped on a short wall. I took a picture.” I hold out my imaginary phone, pretending my palm is the screen. “See, you’re galloping.”

“Look at that posture.” She sends her finger to the sky. “Give me a horse award.”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re called.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She taps the spot above her heart. “Pin that blue ribbon right on me.”

“If I had one, I would.” I reach into my back pocket and pretend to pull one out. “Oh, wait, look, I have one in my back pocket for just such an occasion.”

“You clever, clever bastard,” Hazel says, swaying back and forth. “Go ahead, pin her on me.”

Reaching out, I pretend to pin a ribbon on her, and then I pat her chest, to make sure it’s secure. “There, our prize-winning galloper, decorated in glory.”

“I don’t think it’s secure. You need to tap it some more.”

“Oh, shit, really?” I reach out and tap her chest a few more times. “There, is it on there?”

She looks down and then back up at me. “One more time.”

I pat a little harder, her soft breast taking the brunt of my patting. “There. Good?”

“Satisfactory.” She salutes me and then starts to walk away.

“Hazel, you need to hold my hand.”

“Why?” Her nose scrunches.

“Because we’re about to walk over the old main bridge of Würzburg. It’s tradition to hold hands.”

“Where did you hear that?”

I sway. “One of the stenchy ghosts whispered it to me before we left.” I hold my hand out to her but she doesn’t take it. “Hazel, don’t make me come after you and force you to hold my hand.”

“That hand is dangerous.”

I lift it up to my eyes and give it a good look. “How so? It doesn’t have any medieval spikes coming out of it.”

“It’s a tempting hand. Gets me into trouble.” She walks toward the bridge, and I catch up to her, standing in front of her, the wine in my belly sloshing dangerously. I steady myself before I speak, because, hell, I’m drunk.

Hands on her shoulders, I force her to look me in the eyes. “Hey, is this because of the dry humping? You haven’t wanted to hold my hand all day. We always hold hands.”

“I know, and I don’t want you thinking I’m some desperate girl.”

“What?” My brow creases. “I would never think that.”

“But I was the one who tried kissing you and you ran away, and then I humped you while you were drunk. It’s not looking good on my end.”

“Uhh . . . do you not remember what happened this morning?” I ask. A few people walk by us, bundled up, with concerned looks on their faces. I smile at them and say, “Just talking about our morning escapades. Guten tag.”

Talking quietly, Hazel says, “It was a lapse of judgment on both of our parts.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“Don’t you?” she asks, her eyes watery from the wine, her lips a tinge of red, looking more kissable than ever before.

I shrug. “I thought it was pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool?” She laughs. “Oh my God. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m a guy. I think getting off with a gorgeous girl is pretty damn cool, no matter how it happens.”

“But I’m Hazel.”

I nod. “Yes, you are. And I would hump you right here if I could get away with it.”

Rolling her eyes, she pushes her gloved hand against my face and knocks me away.

Laughing, I snag her hand and hold it tight. “Stop being ridiculous and just hold my damn hand as we walk across this bridge. We have that letter to read from Pops. You know, the one that said ‘Old Main Bridge’?”

“Oh, yeah. Think you can read it? You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”