Page 73 of Love at Second Down

She smiles before rising onto her toes and pressing a kiss to my cheek. It’s soft and warm, just enough to turn my stomach inside out and leave me frozen in place.

“Good luck, Damon.” Her breath whispers over my cheek, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to lean into her, toclaim her mouth with mine. “Look for me in the stands,” she says, taking a step back. “I’ll be cheering for you.”

Then she turns, heading for the door when I call out, “Hey, Avery?”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder, hypnotizing me with her gaze. Something familiar floats through her expression as she waits, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I say, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “With the game, with us. But regardless, I’m glad you came back.”

Her breath catches, and for a second, she just stares, eyes shining with emotion as she says, “Me too.” And then she’s gone, while I stand in my living room, staring at the closed door, with the scent of her lingering in the air like a ghost.

My phone buzzes again, pulling me back to reality.

With a sigh, I turn and snatch it off the couch at the same time West appears with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “Was that Avery?” he asks, tipping his chin toward the door.

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.

“You good?”

I stare at him a moment, reading the doubt in his eyes. West has always been good at hiding his thoughts, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what he’s thinking. Thanks to Chris’s big mouth, all the guys know about the double date and the kiss. And based on the way he’s looking at me, I have no doubt he’s worried about her fucking with my head.

“Yeah, it’s all good, man,” I say, without meeting his eyes.

Mentally shifting gears, I head for my room where I grab my bag. I can’t think about Avery right now. Not the confessions about her father and her reasons for leaving, her traveling to my game, or where this is headed. Right now, all my focus needs to be on the days ahead of me. On this game and winning.

When I return to the living room a few minutes later, bag in hand, West is still eyeballing me like I’m a ticking time bomb ready to explode. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but it’s not nothing.

“She just wanted to wish me luck.”

“Riiiiight,” West drawls, sounding unconvinced. “Let’s just hope she’s not the only good luck charm you’ve got this weekend.”

I huff out a laugh, snagging my keys off the hook by the door. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Could’ve fooled me with how hard you were staring at that door after she left,” he mutters, with a shake of the head.

I flip him the bird and he laughs but I say nothing as we head out the door. Because deep down, no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise, Avery showing up this morning did something to me. It settled something inside of me. Reminded me of who I am, and what I’ve been fighting for these last two and a half years.

And maybe, just maybe, what I’m fighting forafterthe final whistle blows.

Chapter 22

AVERY

Iwrench open the heavy glass door to Chachi’s and step out of the blustery cold, into the warm confines of the restaurant. With a shiver, I shake the snow off my shoulders as my gaze scans the row of booths to my left until I spot the girls, the scent of Mexican food making my stomach grumble.

Liz peeks her head up and smiles, so I give a little wave and make a beeline toward them. Shrugging off my heavy winter coat before I slide into the booth, I note the girls’ attention to my left and follow their line of sight to the televisions above the bar where I note the news story with a sigh.

“I talked to Chris today,” Charlotte frowns, toying with the straw in her ice water, “and he said you can smell the snow in the air.”

Brynn nods. “Jace said locals are scrambling. The news stations are showing clips of bare store shelves across the city. It’s crazy.”

The waitress appears between them, lowering a basket of tortilla chips onto the table, along with a couple small bowls of salsa. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, her gaze on me.

“Sure. I’ll take a pitcher of margaritas and a water.” The waitress hesitates for only a moment before nodding and hurrying off.

“You lucky bitch,” Charlotte mutters when the waitress returns a moment later, placing a glass in front of me, along with the pitcher of golden liquid before she disappears again.

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