Page 99 of The Score We Never Settled

“Don’t worry about Layla,” Micah confirms without the whole backstory. “She’s covered here. And drinking heavily.”

My eyes snap around, looking for curly brown hair and some fuckable dress I know she’s wearing. “Where? Here?”

“Did you ever figure out the bus situation?” Tucker asks Micah. “If not, we can get a few people together to drive the kids to?—”

“Where’s my wife?” I bark out a little, sending a searing glower in Micah’s direction, but all he does is smile.

“With my girlfriend. Tossin’ horseshoes—wait, no. She’s playin’winepong. My girl isn’t a huge fan of?—”

“Shut the fuck up, Wolfe,” I ground out, taking a step to get around his body when he mom-arms me to a halt.

“My kids,” he repeats. “It’d mean a lot to them if you could swing by before you leave. Some of them want to go professional. You’re exposure they’ll never have again.”

I frown. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He mocks my expression. “You’re not playing anymore?”

“No, I am, but this won’t be my last visit.”

“Could’ve fooled us,” Tucker returns. “Ya haven’t been home since you left. Bought a house but never came back.”

“I bet you’ve had a field day explaining to everybody why,” Micah replies. “You have a wife here but no?—”

“It’s her Uncle Ben,” Tucker explains. “It was a secret.”

Micah’s eyes widen a little. “Damn. And I thought our little secret was a big one.”

Eh.

I was seventeen and snuck into a bar a few towns over. I was pissed over the Layla/Cruz thing, nothing too out of the ordinary for me at that time.

There was a drunk guy on the dance floor, feeling up some girl, and she was trying to get away from him.

She had dark curly hair, like Layla’s, and the disrespect and lack of personal space set me off the edge. All I could think about was Cruz doing that to my girl, and I just started whaling on him.

Micah was there, a few years older than me, with a few of his buddies, and they got me outside and on the way back to Magnolia Ridge before the owner could call the cops and press charges.

If he hadn’t been there, I could’ve gone down for assault and lost my chances at a baseball career.

“You’ll always be my first,” I vouch. “I appreciate you, man.”

“Anytime, brother.” He jerks his head toward the barn. “She’s in there. Tucker will text me your number. We’ll stay in touch.”

“Will do.”

He drops his arm and allows me free passage. The barn is full of people bullshitting and some dancing around.

When I get inside, there are several tables set up with red Solo cups and games commencing, but it’s Layla Jean and those goddamn floral dresses that receive the sole spotlight.

“Put it in,” Fallon yells at Layla from the other side of the table. “Nice and slow, baby!”

Layla positions a neon yellow ping-pong ball in the air and aims while Fallon bends over, getting her face near the cup. “Fall, get away from the area.”

“Just pretend you’re going to hit me in the face.”

“I don’t want to hit you in the face.”

“You’re not. It’s just going to help you out…with missin’.”