Page 35 of Game Plan

We’ll pause for a second to let you grieve.

We’d love to call this hearsay, but we heard it firsthand. Finn Miller is officially engaged. For whom the bells toll? That part we don’t know. But you can trust us to get to the bottom of the story … just as soon as we get to the bottom of this shot of tequila.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Finn

“Shit,” I groan, rolling onto my back.

My shoulder screams and my right hip throbs, the result of having the audacity to sleep on my stomach. I move slowly, stretching each body part to ensure nothing’s locked up and can handle my weight when I stand. Being a professional athlete is not for the weak.

The blackout curtains hanging over my bedroom windows are pulled tight, making it impossible to determine the time of day. Or the day at all.

I close my eyes, getting my bearings.

Memories of working out so late last night that it was technically early morning slide through my foggy brain. Yesterday was Saturday. I met Frutter and Chauncey at the park.

And then I saw Poppy.

The pain riddling my muscles eases as my focus shifts to the raven-haired beauty driving me crazy in every way possible.

“Maybe we could get dinner tomorrow?”

My head presses against the pillow as I chuckle sleepily. I’d have dinner with you every night, Pop. Just say the word.

I heard that question a hundred times last night while I tried to focus on a set of plays Coach uploaded into my portal. The part I couldn’t shake was that she asked for dinner. She didn’t ask for sex, or to ride my cock, or to give me a blow job.

She asked for dinner.

It gives me hope that she misses me and realizes our connection is based on things outside the bedroom. This week has been terrible, and I nearly threw her over my shoulder at O’Dells and brought her home with me. But if holding out and torturing myself will make her believe that we could be so much more, then so be it.

Because I just don’t see another ending for me.

When she noticed me at the bar, the first thing she did was ensure I didn’t believe she was out on a date with someone else.

“She knew that would have pushed me but chose to clarify instead,” I say, sighing.

She then closed her eyes when she realized how close we were sitting and that she’d taken my hand in hers, as if being that close and not touching didn’t make sense. As if the two just went together. She’d looked … pained.

“I want you to open your eyes, Pop, and think about all these incidental moments when you’re so comfortable with me. I want you to crave more of it. I want you to need it like I do.”

But just spending time together isn’t the only answer. We’ve spent two years around each other, and that hasn’t changed her viewpoint.

How in the hell do I do that?

I rip off my blanket, the cold air enveloping my body as my bare feet hit the floor. The hallway is bright, and I squint as I make my way down the steps to the kitchen.

“What time is it?” I mumble, scratching the top of my head. The last time I remember was five this morning when I made a milkshake.

My phone rings from the living room, and I pause, considering making coffee before I start my day. But the call ends and then starts again, so I find the device behind a pillow on the couch—wondering how the hell it got there—and answer it.

“Yeah?” I ask after seeing that it’s Branch.

“I was starting to think you were dead.”

“It’d probably feel better than I do this morning.” Yawning, I run a hand down my face and head for the kitchen again. “I feel like I wrestled a tiger last night.”