Page 106 of The Score We Never Settled

Everything about him is bold and powerful. His gaze on me sucks everything out and replaces it with excitement, something Cruz never gives me, even though everyone here thinks I’m present for him.

The distinct crack of a ball has the crowd standing on its feet, and I look toward the field, watching it soar amongst the high-beamed lights, destined for the outfield.

It hits the fence, short of a homerun, as Tucker books it around the bases to try to get as far as he possibly can.

One run is scored in from third base, Lincoln Fry, the team’s right outfielder.

Screams and shouts fill my ears as Briggs begins to get himself ready to get up to home plate, but then he abruptly stops and turns back to look at me.

Defiance drapes over his features, and my heart picks up its speed because I know he’s going to do something insanely unethical and crazy.

“Layla Jean,” he calls out, somewhat deafening the masses so they can hear every word he says. “This one’s for you.”

My eyes bulge because this wasnotpart of the plan with drawing attention to this weird love triangle that’s not really atriangle. It’s a mask behind a boy who’s not my boyfriend, but is in the eyes of the town, and—it’s a mess.

“For your birthday,” he tacks on to soften the gossip that was starting to boil and formulate in people’s heads, then heads to home plate for his turn.

He swings his bat, squares his shoulders, and lets the first pitch go and glide without action.

Then I see his right foot dig harder into the dirt, and he’s locked and loaded.

He’s about to show Magnolia Ridge—and me—that when he says something, he means it because when the next pitch comes off the glove and palm of Riverbend’s all-star pitcher, Briggs smacks the ball within the atmosphere with the velocity and speed that gives you only one outcome.

A home run.

Magnolia Ridge loses its mind. Carefully made posters fly up in the air, along with cups, peanuts, and someone has confetti—unreal—while the metal bleachers vibrate with kids jumping around and adults high-fiving with another two runs scored.

But my attention never leaves Briggs Kerrigan as he rounds second base, jogging confidently to third while his elated stare connects with mine again.

He smirks, then winks when he rounds his last base. This boy—this insanely, unruly boy—is going to get us in trouble.

Mein trouble.

And, Lord help me, I could never let him go.

29

BRIGGS

Getting her home is safe,not easy, but I’m not looking to push when my brain has no problem begging Layla to pick me and the life I built for us.

She’s quiet the whole way, lost in her own little world, and I allow her space.

When I pull up into her driveway, she doesn’t attempt to open her door to get out, fully aware I’m going to insist on doing it for her anyway.

When she takes my hand to get down, she doesn’t release it as she starts for her front porch and her two-bedroom house.

It matches her.

Pink flowers line both sides of the stairs, and there’s a wind chime that tings and releases long resonant tones.

We make our way up the steps, and I fully expect her to turn around and say good night. But what I don’t expect from my girl is her rising on her tiptoes, wrapping her free arm around the back of my neck, and pressing those soft, fuckable lips against mine.

I’m lucid and stimulated all at the same time.

Pulling her against me harder, I can’t help but crank the kiss up a notch and slide my tongue easily into her mouth.

There’s no way I’m going to stop and pepper off eighty more questions on what we’re doing, what she’s thinking, or how she’s going to handle her uncle, because in this moment, it’s just us.