“Never better,” I lie, catching it and spinning it in my hands.
Reese doesn't push it. That's what I appreciate about him. He sees everything and says only what needs to be said—unlike some of my other teammates.
“If your balls were any prettier, I'd marry them!” Sebi shouts from across the field, his hands cupped around his mouth. A few players laugh, and Coach Summers shoots him a glare that would make most men wither into nothingness. Not Sebi, though. The guy's immune to shame.
“Save the marriage proposal for someone who'll say yes,” I call back, earning me a dramatic clutch of his chest.
“You're breaking my heart, Evans,” Sebi pouts, dropping to one knee on the practice field. “I thought what we had was special.”
Before I can respond, Mason shoulders past Sebi with his helmet in hand, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cooling evening air. The practice defense is setting up for another drill, waiting for us to get our act together.
“If you two are done with your love story,” he says, eyes locked on me, “some of us are trying to run actual practice plays here.”
There's no real heat in his words; that’s just the way Mason is. The guy’s a machine and only has one setting. Football.
“Sorry, did I hurt your feelings by not throwing to you that time?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Need some attention during practice?”
Mason doesn’t flinch. “Just need a quarterback who can keep up with me on these drills.”
“You got it,” I fire back, already scanning the practice field, planning the next play. “Run the cross route again, but this time, I want you cutting sharper at the break. The practice defense is reading you.”
“Noted,” he says, adjusting his helmet.
I nod, about to call the next play, but then I see her.
Honey's walking along the edge of the stands, looking for a place to sit, and I silently thank everything holy that I’m wearing my compression shorts right now.
This. Fucking. Girl.
She’s wearing my jersey, but not just any jersey. My South Point Prep jersey. The one from high school. The one that screams she knows me more intimately than any of the other girls out here watching.
It’s faded, oversized, andmine.
“Earth to Evans,” Dax snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You with us or are we running this drill without you?” His hand comes closer, to the point where I think that he might slap me, which finally breaks me out of the spell.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes still locked on her, amused that she’s so hot, I almost forgot how to breathe. “Just give me a second.”
Without acknowledging any of my teammates, I jog toward the sideline, ignoring Coach’s confused look.
“Honeycomb!” I call out, stopping at the edge of the field. She smiles brightly when she sees me waving frantically. “You made it.”
Biting her bottom lip, she leans against the railing. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” I drawl out, taking her in. Green and gold—I haven’t seen that combo on her since the last day of high school, and I forgot how much I fucking love it. “And you’re wearing myjersey.” I don’t even bother to hide my satisfaction because this jersey doesn’t just say she owns me; it makes it clear she’s owned me since high school.
And probably for the rest of my life, if she’d agree.
Catching my look, she rolls her eyes and leans against the railing. “I know that look. You’re letting this go to your head.”
“Can’t help it. I’m just remembering the last time I saw you in it. You had no—”
“Evans!” Coach's voice booms across the field. “This isn't social hour! Get your ass back in formation!”
“Duty calls,” I tell Honey with a wink and a salute. “Stick around after? I want to see you properly.”
“I'll be here,” she promises.
I jog back to the huddle, where Sebi is holding onto a reluctant Mason, making kissy faces.