Page 61 of The Score We Never Settled

“I bought you tickets to a Charleston Otters game.”

“Oh, for the love of fucking God,” I mutter under my breath, turning my head away so I don’t have to look at this fucking idiot.

“And since I’m out for the rest of the season,” Cruz continues like the drunk dope he is. “I thought we could spend some time together.”

I hear the aluminum foil crinkle in Layla’s direction, and when I finally look over to see what in the hell is taking her so damn long to tell him no, she’s back to eating her damn hot dog.

The hell is up with this girl and hot dogs all of a sudden?

“Well?” Cruz presses impatiently and, out of my peripheral, I see him steal a look at me because, well, we both know he’s trying to piss me off here. “What do you say, baby?”

“Honestly?” Layla muffles with her mouth full, balling the foil into a ball and taking her sweet ass time turning him down. “Why would I want to go out of town just to watch a team lose when I already watch the Tornadoes, who actually have a spot to make the playoffs this year? The Otters are in last place.”

My brows clip together. “I thought you said you didn’t keep tabs on me?”

“I don’t,” she replies evenly. “I watch the team.”

Oh, Short Stop, bullshit.

You still watch me.

“The Tornadoes won’t make it past the wildcard because they’re too busy babysittin’ your boy over here,” Cruz clips out, permitting some of his true dickhead to come out. I’m surprised it took him this long, honestly. The beer must’ve logged him around a little in his head. “Besides, it’s free, baby. Free food, free hotel, free beer, free sex.” He closes some of the space between them, and it takes everything in me not to shove his Solo cup down his throat before he says another word. “Let me fuck you, Layla Jean. I know I can do it better than Kerrigan can.”

My girl looks up at him, strait-laced and completely at ease.

That’s until she tosses the aluminum foil ball at his forehead and has the balls to lean in.

“That’s gonna be a huge problem, Weston,” she claims evenly. “Because Briggs Kerrigan is my husband. And fuckin’ me will have you killed by the end of the night.”

Then, without pausing a moment to watch his jaw drop or his eyes bug out, Layla Jean walks around his unstable body and proceeds toward the carnival rides with complete ease.

That’s my girl.

That’s my motherfuckin’wife.

16

BRIGGS

Six years ago…

“You eatanother one of those, Layla Jean, you’re not going to be able to taste another thing in your life.”

I watch her suck in air through her pursed lips, trying to tame the spicy heat of the chicken sandwich she just had to try, but she musters through because her stubbornness refuses to wave a white flag.

We’re sitting on my bed in my studio apartment, happy that I’m not sharing a two-bedroom with the goons downstairs because I’ve been doing that shit for the last three years now. I made a bet with one of the veterans on the team to trade places with me if I out-hit him for the year. When honestly, I was just trying to get this place so Layla would visit me comfortably without two to three teammates up our asses, mismatched furniture, their stupid commentary, and protein powder everywhere.

She’d starve, too. The only three things in the fridge at all times were eggs, sports drinks, and leftover takeout food that had a good chance of being spoiled.

This way, my girl can get her spicy chicken, not be stared at, and I can get her all to myself.

“How else am I going to learn how to get used to the food?” she returns, reaching for her lemonade that’s not going to help her with anything. “It’s a staple here.”

“You say that like you’ve been thinkin’ about movin’ up here.” Her gaze immediately averts, and I sit up straighter while a sliver of excitement slices through my frame. “Short Stop…don’t say that if it’s not true.”

“I didn’t.”

She purposely shoves her spicy chicken sandwich in her mouth so she can’t elaborate or say any more, but my mind is reeling with possibilities of her coming up here to stay.