The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(9)

I pause. Hazel has always been outgoing, a bit of a neat freak, and very organized. She’s a hard worker, has no problem getting dirty when she needs to, and is very loving. Her relationship with her grandpa mirrors mine, and it’s one of the reasons I always felt drawn to her when visiting Pops. That and her ability to just have fun.

But this side of Hazel, this . . . sexual side. Call me a prude, but I never expected it from her.

Ehh, scratch that, I didn’t expect it that quickly.

Umm . . . hmm . . . maybe I should have. Yeah, this actually almost feels right.

Have you ever masturbated?

Do you think pigs have crushes?

Why do you think they call it a hoof?

Her questioning falls in line with her personality.

She pokes my side. “Don’t go shy on me now.”

“Not going shy, just think I need something stronger than a Sprite for this conversation.”

She laughs. “You might be right.” She takes a deep breath and exhales, then picks up the menu showing food options for the first-class passengers. “Wow, duck on an airplane? Bet it tastes like rubber. Where’s the pizza?”

“Back in economy, probably.”

“Pops would have scoffed at duck.” Setting the menu down, she continues, “This is supposed to be about Pops, so let’s talk about him.”

“You know, I don’t really want to talk about Pops right now.”

“Why not?”

“Not something I want to dive into on an airplane.”

“Fair enough.” She reaches for her backpack and pulls out an old, tattered notebook and two pens, one purple, one green. She playfully hands me the green pen and says, “Are you up for the challenge?”

“A green pen?”

“Not just a green pen, but THE green pen.”

“Are we about to take a trip down memory lane, Haze?”

“I mean, if we take a detour down memory lane while on our way to Germany, then why not?”

Chuckling, I nod at the notebook that’s seen its fair share of better days, the same notebook that Hazel used to carry around the farm, looking to best me. “Did you print out game boards, cut them up, and tape them inside the notebook?”

“I’m not a monster,” she replies, flipping the notebook open to a new section full of empty gameboards.

“You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Would it even be visiting with each other if we didn’t play Dots and Boxes?”

“It wouldn’t.” I pick up the notebook and flip through the pages. Game after game of purple and green fill the notebook. I turn to the front page and chuckle. “Remember this, the romantic pact we made?”

She leans over and takes a look at it. “Oh God, I don’t.”

Hell, I do. I remember this pact vividly, especially after that kiss. The kiss that caught me by surprise. My mind immediately went to this pact and how we just broke it.

How she broke it.

How I was shocked that she did.

Because if anyone was bound to break the pact, I swore it would have been me.

Angling the notebook toward her, she reads out loud. “Hazel Allen and Crew Smith agree to never get romantically involved ever and swear to be best friends forever.” She chuckles. “Look at your signature. Oh my God.”

I laugh out loud. “It doesn’t look like that anymore.” I flip through the pages some more and review games claiming a purple victory and some claiming a green victory. Even have a few with the label “Cheater” written across the top in Hazel’s handwriting. “I still think the jury is out about these games where you assumed I cheated.”

“You did,” she fires back. “You cheated multiple times, distracting me with Funyuns and then adding an extra line when I wasn’t looking.”

“You think I would sink so low as to cheat at Dots and Boxes?”

“Uh . . . yeah.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You couldn’t stand losing to a girl, especially a scrawny ass like myself.”

“Not true.” She eyes me and I laugh. “You were pretty scrawny.”

But she isn’t now.

I always saw her in the summers. Christmas time, she flew to Indiana to be with her mom’s side of the family, so we always missed each other during the winter.

So, it’s been a few years since we’ve spent time together. But she’s . . . uh . . . matured. A late bloomer—she was always scrawny, flat-chested, and very innocent looking.

Now, she has some curves, her lips look plumper than I ever remember, and her brilliant red hair is woven through with blonde highlights that creates a wave of color my hands are crazily itching to touch.

And those eyes of hers, now highlighted by a coat of mascara. They’re large, almost doe-like, and bright, full of life and excitement. She’s . . . hell, she’s beautiful. The kind of sun-kissed beauty that comes naturally with her well-placed freckles and warm-toned skin. But it’s that smile that’s endless and mesmerizing, a smile that has always been a solid comfort in my life.

So why did I stop writing to her?

Because I’m a self-absorbed ass.

Because I was scared.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

“Scrawny on the outside, huge muscles on the inside.” She attempts to flex her arm, and through her tight-fitted long-sleeve, I see a tiny hill in her bicep, but that’s about it. “Can’t judge a book by its cover. Remember, I almost beat you in a hay bale throwing contest.”