Page 6

Drake

I should be ecstatic to be in Miami—it’s a giant step up from Tampa, that’s for sure. But after everything I’ve been through, the allure of the nightlife has lost its hold on me. How pathetic is that? I’m twenty-two years old and I’ve already gotten burned out on going out.

Well, it’s not burnout quite as much as it is fear of losing it all again. I’m cautious. Wary. Some might even say mature. (Not me though.)

Why am I in Miami instead of the great state of Texas, you ask?

I got picked up by the Dolphins.

That’s right, the least intimidating mascot in the National Football League decided they needed me —the so-called bad boy rookie who ruined his first chance.

So here I am, standing in front of my rental home that’s a weird orangey color, waiting for the landlord to give me my keys.

Last time I got picked up by a team, I spent my million-dollar signing bonus on a baller pad on the water.

I spent a good chunk of the rest of my salary furnishing it and keeping it running, but I only lived there nine months.

I’m trying to learn my lesson— all the lessons—and this time went for a reasonably priced rental close to the stadium. It’s nice without being gaudy.

Last year, gaudy was my thing.

This year, I’m determined to be reasonable. No more rehab, no more wasting all my money on top shelf liquor and girls whose names I don’t remember.

The landlord finally rolls up—twenty minutes late, no call, no apology.

“Come in, come in,” he says, hurrying me inside like he’s been waiting for me. I scoff. Floridians.

He shows me around and it looks fine. Of course everything will be a downgrade from my million dollar home on Davis Island in Tampa. But there’s a nice patio and a pool and hot tub. Perfect for all the parties I’m going to throw.

Not .

He shows me a few things and then he’s chatting me up about the Dolphins, but this is the last place I want to be and the last conversation I want to have. I politely tell him I have someplace to be and he continues on for another five minutes before I walk him to the door.

I’m expected at Play It Forward in a half hour.

When I got sentenced for my DUI last year, part of my sentencing included community service.

It must be some sort of cosmic joke that I’m going to be mentoring youth as part of my punishment.

Who should be mentored by me ? It’s laughable.

But I guess there are worse things—I could be picking up trash on the side of I-75.

At least I get to be in the air conditioning.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be mentoring them on moral skills—I’ll play sports and games with them, maybe help them with homework, that sort of thing.

Although let’s be honest, the only real skills I bring to the table are football skills—and if you ask any NFL analyst, even those are diminished right now.

I hop in my car and head to Play It Forward, but driving in Miami is not at all like driving anywhere else in the United States.

We are definitely not in Texas anymore, y’all.

In Dallas, you get a wave when you let someone merge.

Here, you get a death glare and a honk that rattles your soul.

To make matters worse, it seems like everywhere I go, there’s construction.

I suck in a breath when the car in front of me almost knocks into a cone and when they course correct, they almost hit the guy in the lane next to them.

Sheesh.

When I finally get to the facility, I’m fifteen minutes late. At the very least, Play It Forward has a good facility—clean and modern, with lots of sunlight drifting into the lobby. There’s a statue of a kid and Dan Marino—these Miamians really love their Dan Marino.

The girl at the front desk is busy typing away, her hair up in a tight ponytail, a pair of oversized dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. At first, I think she looks kind of plain, but then she looks up at me and . . .

Whoa.

Not plain, not at all. She’s got sexy librarian vibes—if librarians were, well, sexy.

She has the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen—not even her thick glasses could hide that shade of Caribbean blue.

Her dark hair contrasts with her fair skin and blue eyes.

She looks vaguely familiar, like a mash-up of Jess from New Girl and someone I should probably remember. Maybe someone I knew back in Dallas.

My lips hitch into a grin before I can stop them. “Hello, gorgeous,” I say. And just like that, all my hard-earned self-control? Gone.