Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I rub the back of his head with affection, picturing that fateful and wonderful day before the season started. “Back when I could save you.”
He leans in closer, nuzzling my neck. “A dude in distress needs his damsel. Or really, his lifeguard surf angel nurse rock star goddess,” he says.
There will be no more saving because paddle boarding is off-limits for Drew for a long time now.
As in, the next five years. After he finished the season with a 13–5 record and took the team to the championship series, the Mercenaries signed him to a five-year contract with a no-trade clause. His agent is quite a dealmaker, and Drew took Maddox and me out for a fantastic dinner in Venice Beach a few months ago to celebrate. Then, Maddox told us that he’s leaving to join a new agency and he wants to take Drew with him.
Drew’s answer was pure Drew—you’re not getting rid of me, buddy.
“Good. I don’t want to get rid of you,” he’d said.
I’m not surprised. Maddox takes good care of my guy, and I appreciate all he does. He’s become a friend too, and we often share reading recs and hit the bookstore in Venice together, since he lives here too. I can’t wait to hear what happens when he starts his new gig, and if it opens new doors for him.
Maybe even to love.
Or perhaps I just have romance on my mind.
And happy endings, since the Mercenaries love Drew, just like the fans do.
But not as much as I do.
He might belong to the team, and he might belong to the city, but in the morning, and then later at the end of the night, Drew belongs to me. You might even say we have two-a-days. He moved in with me a few months ago, and when he comes home from practice, we cook together. Or we talk. Or we fuck.
Sometimes, we do all of the above.
Who am I kidding? Most nights, we do all of the above.
Tonight, though, we’re going to the pier to play some games. It’s kind of our thing—Skee-Ball and Whac-A-Mole and movies. And talking endlessly about all of them.
We pack up as the sun fades, then after I shower and change, we head to Santa Monica.
Out on the pier, as the moon rises in the spring sky, I take him on in a game of Whac-A-Mole. “I will reign victorious,” I shout.
I raise the mallet to pound one of the critters, but I don’t see Drew.
Where did he go?
When I spin around, mallet in hand, I gasp.
He’s on one knee, a velvet box in his hand, his hazel eyes flickering with vulnerability and hope.
Is this real?
My heart thunders. My bones sing.
Yes, this is so damn real I’m trembling with happiness already.
“Brooke Holland, I love playing games with you every day and every night,” he says, his tone solemn and full of tenderness too. I’ll remember the way he sounds right now always. “You challenge me, you make me a better man, and you make me so damn happy.”
“You make me so happy too,” I say, my voice breaking with joy.
“Will you be my wife?”
My heart climbs up my throat as I nod over and over, and I just can’t stop. “Yes, yes, yes. I would love to marry you.”
When he flicks open the box, a brilliant diamond shines brightly at me as the moon glows on the stone. “It’s perfect for you,” he says reverently.
I sink to the ground as he slides it on my finger. “You’re perfect for me,” I say, emotions overflowing.
He cups my cheeks, kisses my lips, then smiles—that blinding smile that caught my eye the day I met him. That holds my attention every morning and every night.
Then he says, “I guess some guys do have all the luck.”
Gabe’s epilogue
I still can’t believe the shit that just went down with my ex. Hours later, out with my buddies playing poker, and I’m reeling a little bit in shock. But I’m damn grateful too that it’s all over, even in spite of that awful ending.
I shudder involuntarily at the memory of the way my ex stormed out of my home a few weeks ago, the horrible things she said. No — shouted. For my whole building to hear.
Then, as Drew asks if I’m all in on this hand, I shake off the memory. Screw exes. “I’m definitely in,” I say, then slide another chip into the pile on the table at The Happiest Hours, a bar in Venice — home of my so-called Free At Last party the guys are throwing me.
While we toast to moving on, I vow to focus on my one true love — football. This is my last year in the NFL and I don’t need anything keeping me company but the game.
I clink glasses with the guys, and as Drew shuffles the deck to deal the next round, my gaze strays to the window where a sexy-as-sin brunette chats on the phone as she walks a little dog down the street.