Page 85 of The Hot Shot

Bullshit.

Question is, what do I do about it? Call her on it? Let it ride?

I’ve never been struck by this level of indecision. In football, you hesitate, you’re done. We train, run drills, and practice until reaction is muscle memory and instinct.

There is comfort in that. Hell, there’s comfort in knowing that you’re one of the best at something. I know I’m not the best quarterback in the world. Not yet. But I’ll get there. Perfection in this sport comes with experience and finding your groove.

But with Chess, I might as well be in the peewee leagues. I’m bumbling around, not knowing the plays or how to read a line. It’s frustrating as fuck. And I cannot fuck up. Not with Chess. She’s too important.

I’m at a crossroads here.

A small voice inside me is whispering to cut and run while I still can. That’s the easy solution. No failure there. I can back off, treat Chess as a casual friend. The kind I call every couple of months when I have some free time and nothing to do.

That was Dex’s advice, and the man is a master strategist. Leave Chess alone. Go back to being alone.

I watch a surfer paddle out, calling to his buddy. Their voices are thin on the air, the surf crashing to the shore. Sun glitters off the curve of a wave, turning it murky, turquoise blue.

I feel old. Not yet thirty, not yet in the full groove of my career, and suddenly I feel so fucking old. Apart from everything. I could have been a dad.

Would she have had my eyes? Would she have hated green peas like I do? My fingers dig into the sand. It’s cold and rough just below the surface.

The sound of my phone ringing has me dusting off my hands. I reach for it, expecting Chess. “Hey, I’m down at the beach.”

“Ah, okay.”

It isn’t Chess.

“Britt?” I almost look around as if expecting her to pop out of the sand.

“Yes, it’s me.” She pauses. “You thought I was someone else?”

Well, obviously.“What’s up?”

I have no idea why she’s calling, but I don’t like it. It feels like one of those woman traps that end with her crying and me generally feeling like a heel.

“I... ah...” She clears her throat. “Look, I don’t like how we left things.”

This is why I’m terrible with women—because I have no fucking clue what she means. She asked me if I knew my mom had invited her to spend the holidays with us. I told her no. What else is there?

My silence must have gone on too long because she makes that sound again, as if she’s trying to push her words past some blockage in her throat. “There were things I wanted to say, Finn. But I got distracted, upset.” A soft, half laugh escapes her. “It was difficult seeing you again.”

Again, I feel like a shit for rushing her out. I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache is coming on. I need to get back to my parents’ house. I’ve been gone too long, under the guise of making a wine run.

“I know it’s hard,” I tell Britt as gently as I can. “I was... I was just thinking of her.”

A lump rises swift and painful in my throat, and I swallow convulsively.

“You do it, too,” she whispers thickly.

“Sometimes.” My fingertips press against the hot skin of my eyelids. “At random moments.”

“The other day, it hit me that she would soon be old enough to start eating baby food.” Britt’s voice trembles. “And I had to pull over my car and cry.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

The beach is cold now. I get to my feet. I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to get home.

Chess had gone off to take a nap, jet lag catching up to her. But she’ll be awake now.