Chapter Thirteen #2
But with Lucy, it had been different. His brothers occasionally made jokes about it as if it was just something he’d done when he was younger, like Beck’s unfortunate but blessedly brief electric guitar phase.
They didn’t seem to acknowledge—or didn’t want to face—that Nick had given up a part of himself.
A lot of other people talked about what plays had meant to them.
Nick had never talked to anybody about what football had meant to him.
And then she’d gone and added playing football on the beach to their shenanigans list.
The first thing he’d done after parting ways with Lucy once they’d finished their ice cream—including a little treat for Dolly, who joined them while they were ordering—was send a text to his brothers letting them know something came up and he was taking the afternoon off.
Gray and Beck just hit the thumbs-up reaction to the text, but Theo wanted to know if he was sick.
Or maybe possibly dying because Nick never blew off work.
Nick just said something had come up that he had to take care of.
That something turned out to be driving three towns over to buy a football. And then driving back to the cottage, where Lucy was standing on a kitchen chair, washing the top of the refrigerator.
“Didn’t you do that last week?” he asked, stepping out of his boots by the door.
“I’m bored and I have way too much energy after finding out I have a sister and then eating ice cream. But everything’s clean, and I don’t know what enough flowers are to work in the garden. And why aren’t you at work? Again.”
“We’re going to go burn through some of that energy.” When she stopped wiping and looked at him with arched eyebrows, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you have sweatpants and sneakers?”
“I have leggings and sneakers.” Did she sound a little disappointed the burning of energy required clothing, or was that his imagination?
“We’re going to the beach, but not in the water.”
He thought she’d ask a million more questions, but she jumped off the chair and returned it to its spot before disappearing into her room. He changed into a clean T-shirt and navy sweats—good ones with a strong drawstring this time—before putting his sneakers on.
“Uh-oh,” she said when she emerged from her bedroom. “If you’re wearing sneakers, we’re doing something athletic because you wear your boots for everything. Have I mentioned I’m not very good at sports?”
He snorted, and then looked over her outfit. The leggings clinging to her long legs were distracting, but the long crewneck sweatshirt and sneakers would work. Her hair was in a thick, curly ponytail, and it looked as if she’d just put a fresh coat of sunscreen on her face.
“Grab a couple water bottles and let’s go,” he told her.
It took almost twenty minutes to drive the network of back roads to get to the tiny slice of secluded beach he’d chosen. It had more sand than rocks, and it wasn’t on the tourists’ radar. With a few days left of school and it being work hours, he’d hoped they’d be alone and he’d gotten lucky.
After grabbing the water bottles, Lucy hopped out of the truck and immediately headed for the shoreline.
Nick opened the back door of the truck and grabbed the football.
It felt good to have a ball in his hand again, and when she turned back to see what was taking him so long, she caught him smiling.
“Why are you grinning like that?” she demanded. “You look like a man keeping a juicy secret. Wait, are you hiding something behind your back? It better not be a fishing pole, Nick.”
He was actually keeping a couple of secrets, but he shook his head and showed her the football. She actually bounced a few times on her toes, clapping her hands.
Then he tossed the ball to her, and she put her hands over her eyes as the ball sailed past her.
“This is going to be a short game,” he said as she ran after it.
“No, I can do this!” she called back. “I wasn’t ready.”
Nick wasn’t sure what ready looked like for Lucy, because an hour later, she’d managed to catch barely half the passes he threw to her. Of course, his reception rate wasn’t much higher, but that was because she had the aim of a blindfolded drunk.
When she started to look less like she was having fun and more like she was discouraged, he lobbed an easy one to her.
She caught it easily, and then started running toward him.
Because they didn’t have flags to grab—he hadn’t thought full-contact tackling was a good idea—they’d decided on a rule that if the defender was able to touch the ball, it counted as a tackle.
“What is it they yell on the TV when somebody runs?” she said as she ran across the sand, determined to get by him this time. “She. Might. Go. All. The. Way.”
Laughing, Nick reached out and easily slapped the ball. It slipped out of her grasp and hit the sand, so he scooped it up. “Fumble!”
He tucked the ball securely in his arm and ran, the muscle memory kicking in as though it had been days and not years since he’d played the game.
It felt good, but when he reached the driftwood marking the goal line and turned, Lucy was still standing at the spot of the fumble recovery, hands on her hips.
She was clearly peeved. “You could let me have a little win here and there, you know.”
He grinned, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it easily in one hand. “Is there anything about me that made you think I wouldn’t be competitive when it comes to football? You’re the one who wanted to play against the former golden boy of Wayward Harbor.”
She blew at a wisp of hair in her face. “Fine. Throw it again. I’m going to get a point, dammit.”
Laughing, he tossed her the ball again, putting it right into her hands.
She didn’t try to tuck it under her arm this time, but just ran straight toward him.
He started toward her, but before he could reach out for the ball, she stuffed it under her sweatshirt and crossed her arms over the fabric to keep it from falling out.
“You can’t touch it now!” she said, trying to fake to her right to get past him.
“Penalty,” he said, and then he wrapped his arms around her and tackled her to the ground, ball and all.
He twisted as they went down, so his back took the brunt of the impact. There were enough rocks mixed in with the sand so he knew he’d have a few bruises to show for it, but he didn’t care. Lucy in his arms, laughing so hard she couldn’t escape him, was worth a few black and blue marks.
“You cheated,” she squealed, trying to wrangle the ball that was trapped under her sweatshirt.
“No, you cheated.”
“I never heard any rule banning me from putting the ball under my shirt,” she argued, smiling down at him. Her entire body was pressed along the length of his, but she shifted so one of her knees was in the sand. “But there was definitely a no tackling rule.”
They were both smiling and slightly breathless, and her sun-kissed cheeks were pink with exertion. He brushed a wisp of hair back from her face, and her gaze softened, dropping to his mouth.
Then she lowered her head, and everything but the need to kiss her faded away.
Her lips were gentle, almost tentative, but he cupped the back of her neck and let her feel every bit of the hunger he’d suffered since the last time he’d kissed her.
She moaned against his mouth, the delicious weight of her body relaxing onto him.
Letting go of her neck, he slid his hands under the sweatshirt, skimming over the warm skin of her back.
His right hand brushed the football, and he closed his hand around it, while the other stroked her back.
His fingertips ran over the closure of her bra strap, and his body tightened as he imagined freeing her breasts. Pulling her sweatshirt up and—
She pulled back, resting her cheek against his for a moment before lifting her head so she could look down at him. “There might be people in those houses. They might be looking out their windows.”
“I got caught making out with a girl on this very beach when I was sixteen. The lady who lives in that blue house down to the left? She called the police, and the chief followed me home so he could tell my parents all about it. I don’t recommend it.”
She laughed. “And even I know there’s no second base in football, Nick.”
He grinned and tightened his fingers around the ball, his fingertips denting the leather, before yanking it free of her sweatshirt. She gasped and tried to reach for it, but he held it just beyond her reach.
“Interception,” he said, and then he kissed her again—hard and fast—before rolling out from under her and pushing to his feet, the football secured.