Page 48 of The Wrong Game

“Ah, so shedoesremember.” I licked my lips, stepping toward her with a satisfied grin as I watched every shade of pink and red color her cheeks. I reached forward, tucking one finger into the loop of her jeans. “You know, we never did get to the whole beingrailed into next yearthing.”

Her skin flamed, mouth pursing as she fought the urge to smile. I trailed my hand up her side, running my fingertips up her arms on a track to frame her face. I wanted her lips on mine again, her little mouth opening to let me in for more.

But before I could make that move, she poked me again.

“Ou-ch-uh,” I said on a laugh, enunciating the one syllable in the word and adding two more of my own at the end. I eyed her, rubbing my arm.

“Goodnight,Zach,” she said again, one brow raised. Then, she held up the finger she’d just poked me with, thumb framing it like it was a gun, and she blew the tip of it as she walked away, tucking it into her pocket like a cowboy in an old western movie.

She strutted off with her shoulders back, chin held high, a little skip in her step like she’d won. But she didn’t know — that little move had only added fuel to my fire.

Nothing worth having ever came easy, that was something I learned at a young age. I never expected Gemma to cave fast, to give into me without fighting back. If anything, I loved that she had her plans, her list-filled goals she wanted to stick to.

It was part of what made her unique.

I watched her hips sway until she was out of view, running a hand over the stubble lining my jaw as every bone in my body ached for me to chase after her.

But, I was a patient man, and I’d played football long enough to know you never spent all your energy in the first quarter.

There was still plenty of game to play.

And when the ball was in my hands again, I’d be ready.

Gemma

His hand rested on her hip, the same way it had rested on mine that morning when he kissed me goodbye. He was kissing this girl, too — but not because he was leaving.

He stepped into her, pulling her closer, his lips seeking hers. And when they kissed, I felt those lips like they were pressed against my own. I knew those lips. I had memorized the way they felt when they touched my forehead, my cheek, my mouth.

Did she know his kisses the same way I did?

I blinked, and then she was there, in the back of the church where he and I were married. She wore black, just like me, but her tears came easier than mine. She cried for a lover taken too soon by death.

I cried for a lover taken too soon by her.

And when I faced the casket, he was there, staring back at me with tired, gray eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but my heart felt no relief.

He wasn’t sorry he’d cheated. He was sorry I’d found out. He was sorry I had to stay by his side while he withered away, burying his secret along with his body.

When they closed the casket door, I screamed.

I bolted upright on my couch, one hand flying to my head as it pounded in protest at my sudden movement. I squeezed my eyes shut, falling back down on the cushions and kicking the blanket off me.

I was hot, slick with sweat, my chest heaving and heart racing. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what year I was in. I didn’t know what was real, and what was a dream.

Or rather, a nightmare.

I groaned, the sweat cooling on my chest now that I’d abandoned my blanket. Letting my hand flop to the floor, I felt around for my cell phone, peeking at the screen with one eye. I had three missed calls from Belle and a text from Zach.

It was just after six in the evening.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the beat of my heart slow more with every new breath. I’d laid down somewhere around three to take a cat nap, just wanting to recharge after an early day at the office before I dragged Belle out to watch tonight’s game with me. It was Monday night football, and an away game for the Bears.

We were playing the Packers — our biggest rivals.

I’d been excited, but tired from the day, so I laid down to rest.