Page 39 of Filthy Player

“Stop fussing over me,” he said when I draped a blanket over his lap. It was almost ninety degrees outside, but I still wanted to make sure he didn’t catch a chill.

“No.”

“You’re driving me crazy, girl.”

“Right back atcha.” I kissed his forehead and smiled. “Stop being so grouchy. I want to take care of you.”

I walked away and went back to the kitchen, grabbing his pain pills and going through all the instructions the hospital had given us. All of it was common sense, I just had to make sure I didn’t overdose my dad or get him addicted to the painkillers.

I took a few more minutes and made us lunch, trying to ignore the broadcaster’s voice on the television coming from the family room. He was talking about the Rough Riders, how great of a pre-season they’d already had and how good they looked for the upcoming season.

But as soon as he mentioned Beaux’s name, my ears perked up.

I couldn’t get away from him. It only made me feel like shit for not even responding to his text. I’d been raised to be independent, but I hadn’t been raised to be a complete bitch, and he hadn’t deserved any of the stuff I’d thrown at him since I met him…except for maybe the water.

I smiled at the memory and made a decision. I’d call him later, like the grown-up I was and apologize, again, over the phone. Then I’d gently let him know that I was too busy, had too much on my plate to handle a relationship.

We’d end things friendly. And that would be it.

It was the best, smartest, decision I could make. At least that way, my heart wouldn’t end up hurt when he walked away from me like Spencer did.

So why did it feel like I’d been punched in the gut at the idea of not seeing Beaux again? Because I liked him. A lot. I’d have to move on from that, too.

I finished up lunch and loaded up our plates, taking them to my dad on a serving tray and setting everything he needed within reach.

“Thanks, Paige,” my dad said.

“No problem. Anything for you, Dad.”

He gave me a look, one that didn’t exactly look thrilled with my statement and turned back to the television.

I settled on the couch, wishing I could ignore the game, but there was no escaping it. As soon as the Rough Riders took the field and the game kicked off, I was entranced. Every time I saw Beaux on the screen, I thought back to how I’d admitted how much I loved his butt in his uniform. When he ripped off his helmet at halftime, the Rough Riders down fourteen to zero on a team they should have been easily beating, and scrubbed his hand through his hair, I wanted it to be my fingers running through his silky mop.

And when a reporter stopped him, frustration evident all over his face, I wanted to be the one to smooth away his stress lines.

All of it only made the ache in my chest more intense until I felt like it was being squeezed to pieces.

Stepping away from Beaux might be the smartest decision to make, but once again, logic and emotions were battling inside of me, causing a churning storm I had no idea how to settle.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BEAUX

I had fifteen minutes to get my head on straight. Fifteen minutes to try, again, to wipe away the way Paige had slammed the door in my face and hurried away from me like the time we’d spent together had meant absolutely nothing to each other.

Fifteen minutes to scrub away the memory of her that was seared into the deepest recesses of my brain.

Fifteen minutes to get over the fact she hadn’t returned a simple fucking text asking how her dad was.

I’d tried for the last two days and it hadn’t worked, but now I was playing like crap. I was making sloppy plays, slow in the pocket, hesitating when I usually envisioned the play before it ever happened. Hell, I’d even managed to get myself sacked.

We were getting our asses kicked, and I had no one to blame but myself.

I was sitting on the bench, knees spread, head in my hands. Damn Paige Halloway. She’d invaded my brain and I couldn’t shake her. Now was not the fucking time to be strung up on some girl who’d made it clear, time and time again, she wanted nothing to do with me.

Move the fuck on, Hale.

“What the hell is going on?” Coach Pomville asked. “Hale?”

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