Page 7 of Dump Tackle My Heart
She’s got her hair twisted up in one of those messy buns that still looks sexy as hell.
There’s a pen tucked behind her ear, and a little green notebook clutched in one hand while she points at something on Finley’s list.
Her lips are moving. She’s talking shop.
Professional. Focused.
Not looking at me.
Not even a glance.
Not even after everything we did together that unforgettable fucking night we spent together.
And yeah, maybe I deserve that.
I’ve got my own duffel slung over my shoulder and my favorite rugby ball in one hand—the one me and Koa used to toss around as kids back on the Big Island.
It’s scuffed to hell, but I like it that way.
Reminds me of where I came from.
Reminds me of who I am beneath all the bruises and highlight reels.
Still. Right now?
I feel like a fucking idiot.
Because despite what the media says, despite what the locker room thinks, I’m not just the team’s wrecking ball.
I’m not just the big, broody bastard who plays like a demon and speaks like a caveman.
On paper? I’m a genius.
IQ in the stratosphere.
Mensa card in my wallet.
I can build a PC from scrap metal and write code that’d make hackers weep.
Hell, I taught myself Japanese because I was bored.
But when it comes to her?
I’m dumb as a post.
Don’t even know what I did to make her run.
Don’t know why she ghosted me like I meant less than nothing after the best damn night of my life.
But this weekend? I intend to find out, to do better.
And maybe—if the universe is on my side for once—I’ll get to do more than apologize.
Hell, I’ll grovel.
Drop to my knees.
Beg her to let me make it right.
