Page 135 of The Score We Never Settled

Bet.

I know she means dancing, but my ass is not going to rock side to side in front of my buddies with a million and one questions in their heads on what I’m doing, who I’m with, and what drugs I may be on because none of them know I’m married.

Not one.

I’ve always gotten questionable looks when they were on the prowl, searching for women to satisfy them for a night, and I wouldn’t go with them. I’ve never found a woman attractive or stimulating enough to want to step out on Layla Jean. My head has always been brimming with a future involving the girl in my arms.

And soon to be somewhere else.

Bending over, I scoop Layla up, tossing her over my shoulder as I make my way out of the bar.

She squeals her mild protest, pushing her palms on my spine to see where we’re going. “Briggs, what in the hell? I’m not a sack of potatoes.”

I approach my boys, all staring at me with different expressions on their faces.

Confused.

Concerned.

Intrigued.

Annoyed.

“Boys,” I announce flatly, flicking my focus along all of them. “This is my wife, Layla Jean. You tell anyone about Layla Jean, you can kiss your playoff time goodbye because I’ll bust your head open. No one knows about my wife. I’ve kept my personal life my own. I’m going to keep it that way, understood?”

Davis brings his fingers to his forehead. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch, dude.”

“Do you know what being married is?” Theo asks seriously. “That means you actuallyseeher.”

“How the hell areyoumarried?” Riley wonders out loud, and I almost bust out with a shit-eating grin, but they haven’t confirmed what I need yet.

“Do we get to see her?” Josiah presses. “Or are you gonna be a caveman about it like you already are?”

Turning on my heels, I give them Layla, and no one says a word for a minute before I hear Layla take one of her hands off my back.

“Hi,” she greets sweetly with, I’m assuming, a wave. “I’m Layla Jean.”

“Do we need to call the cops for you?” Riley proposes in a very serious tone. “I think our boy is having a mental break.”

“Layla Jean,” I hear Davis say. “I apologize for the flirting. I didn’t know?—”

“Shut up,” the other three chime tersely in unison.

“You flirted, my ass,” Josiah cuts in, then says, “It’s really nice to meet you, Layla Jean. I’m Josiah?—”

“Faulkner,” she finishes for him. “Right fielder. And Riley Atkins, Theo Benoit, and the famous Davis Blaine.”

“Don’t say that,” Davis lightly berates. “Your husband is a mean jackass.”

“Damn right,” I agree, turning back to my boys and not entirely thrilled about the idea because now they have the perfect view of her ass. “I need your sweatshirt.”

“What for?” Riley asks but still grabs it anyway.

“Media. I’ll bring it back.”

“Alright, friend. Have fun.”

Oh, I will.