Page 144 of The Rookie

Because she’s worth it.

Every frustrating, infuriating, impossible second of her.

And as I close my eyes, finally giving into the weight of it all, I make a silent promise to myself:

This isn’t the end.

Not for me.

Not for her.

Not for us.

And I might be insane. I might be delusional.

But I’d rather be both of those things then picture a life without her.

thirty-six

. . .

PRESENT DAY

So yeah, here we are, back in the club. With my team. For my rookie year.

It’s a year and a half or so after Avery and my little “Mexico adventure.”

I’ve done all I can to avoid her since that time. Mostly because, I really just don’t know what to say to her.

Avery was in Spain—she got the Fulbrightobviouslybecause she’s fucking awesome, and then she may have continued on another European trip? I don’t know. I had to mute her on socials, and I actively made sure I did not received any updates about her from Cassie.

I still don’t know what I’d say to her if I saw her again.

What the hell do you say to a girl who you’ve been in love with for years, lost your v card to, and whose ghoststillprevents you from desiring any of the women around you?

Like I said, I don’t know if I’m insane, delusional, or a romantic.

But luckily, booze usually helps me figure things out in these situations.

I wave down a server. “Another tequila,” I say, brushing her question aside.

The Texas breeze sweeps through the open door behind me, and suddenly—maybe it’s the smell of tequila and lime—but I’m brought back to that last toast with Avery Sinclair.

The bass thumps through the club, vibrating the leather under my arm. Around me, the guys are in full celebration mode—clinking glasses, throwing back shots, and hyping each other up like we’ve already won the Super Bowl.

And me?

I’m not feeling it.

Not the lights.

Not the noise.

Not Brielle—or Brooke—leaning against me, practically begging me to look her way.

Because all I can think about is her.

Avery freaking Sinclair.

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