Chapter 10 Brendan
TEN
Brendan
“Are you warming up?” I try not to laugh at the way she’s stretching her arms, like she’s preparing for an Olympic match instead of a friendly competition.
“Of course I am.” She windmills her arms and nearly takes out someone by the pinball machine. “Not all of us have the unfair advantage of being athletically gifted, Marco.”
I take off my suit coat, rolling up the sleeves of my white dress shirt.
Her eyes track my tattooed forearms before she takes the puck and gives it a hard smack across the table.
I scramble to block it with my mallet, sending the puck back to her.
“How about giving a guy a warning before you start?”
“That’s my whole plan.” She smiles deviously, returning the puck. “To catch you off guard.”
Considering my arms are longer, my aim better, she puts up a pretty good fight. When she gets the first point, she lifts her arms in the air and crows, “YES! Brendan Marco is going down.”
I lift a taunting eyebrow. “Oh, it’s not over yet, Rossi.”
She tightens her stance, ready for me to continue the game. “Give me your best shot, Marco.”
I take it easy on her, letting her rack up the score before I get a few points. With the text she got tonight, I know she needs a small win. We’re back to that easy place between us—the one where we don’t have to pretend.
Ever since the Christmas party, when I tried to get her away from Jaxon, things have been uncomfortable between us.
I’m not a man who does stupid things. I don’t sacrifice my dignity for just anyone.
But if she asked me how much of that embarrassing moment was real, I’d have to tell her the truth: All of it.
I’m a man who would’ve groveled at her feet, begging her to choose me over Jaxon, if I’d needed to. And instead of just owning my stupidity, I did the worst thing possible: I sent her a panicked text afterwards. Mistakes were made. Forget what happened tonight.
Of course she would take my words at face value, and I didn’t attempt to correct her.
Considering the awkwardness from our kiss years ago, the serenade certainly hasn’t made things any easier between us.
“Yes!” she squeals as she scores again, then cocks her chin. “Looks like you’re behind, Bren.” My name rolls off her tongue the same way it did in high school. “I only need one more point to win. You really need to try harder.”
I let out a humorless scoff. “Who says I was actually trying?”
She narrows her eyes and motions to the score. “It’s obvious.”
“I know,” I say, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my shirt because I’ve worked up a sweat.
She tilts her head. I’ve piqued her interest just enough to stall the game. “Then why are you smiling?”
“Because I know something you don’t know.” I toss the mallet between my hands. “I am not left-handed.”
“That’s from The Princess Bride,” she says.
“The movie we watched in high school.” A memory surfaces of Scarlett curled up next to me, her feet tucked under her, reciting lines before the characters could say them.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “But you’ve always played left-handed.”
“When I play you.”
Her mouth falls open. “You mean to tell me that you used your wrong hand during every game in high school?”
I lift an eyebrow. “You want the honest answer, or one that makes you feel better?”
She leans on the table and holds my gaze. “The truth.”
“I played as a leftie, but only because I thought you cared about winning.” I spin the mallet in my hand. “I was waiting on you to figure it out so I could use that quote. Only took you twelve years.”
Her eyes fly wider. “Brendan Marco! Why didn’t you tell me?” She starts around the table toward me.
I quickly back away, hands up in surrender, before she can smack me with her mallet. “You didn’t ask!” I reply with a laugh.
She attempts to scowl, but I don’t believe it. “I’m mad at you.”
“Good.”
“Good?” She halts, looking up at me from under her dark lashes.
I smirk. “Because you play better when you’re mad.”
A mallet comes whirling through the air at me, and I dodge it, barely. It smacks the wall behind me. “You almost took me out with that!”
“That was the idea,” she deadpans, turning back to circle the table.
Even if she wants to clock me with a flying mallet, I don’t want this game to end. The fire in her eyes, the challenge in her pouty, pink lips—all of it is a rush for me.
I snag the mallet from the floor and hold it out to her. “I promise to take it easy on you.”
“I don’t want you to take it easy on me, Marco.” She snatches the mallet out of my hand. “I want to beat you. For real, this time.”
Her eyes are blazing.
“Uh-oh. You’re fired up.”
Eli always told me in private that no one was more stubborn than his sister. Now I see why.
“I am, Marco. I’m confident I can beat you, and I’m willing to bet that whoever wins this game gets to pick the next activity.”
I roll my eyes. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.” Her eyes meet mine, and the intensity is startling. “I know why you let me win.”
“You do?”
She nods, her gaze never wavering from mine. “I was Eli’s sister. You had no other choice but to let me win if you wanted to stay friends with him.”
She thought I did it because of Eli. She had no clue I did it for her.
“Right.” I shift on my feet, rubbing the back of my neck. “Eli was always on my case about you.” Just not for the reasons she thinks. He didn’t want me dating his sister.
I thought I’d hidden my feelings well, until the night of our kiss. It only took her falling into my arms for my self-control to snap. One moment she was laughing, wet from sea spray, my baseball cap on her head. And the next, she was in my arms and I was kissing her.
In that moment, I couldn’t remember a single reason why I was supposed to stay away from her. She’d looked up at me with windblown hair escaping from the cap and the ocean at our feet, and every promise I’d made to Eli disappeared.
“But Eli isn’t a problem now. Which means…” She throws off the Crushers sweatshirt she’s wearing, revealing a tank top underneath. “You don’t have to take it easy on me anymore.”
My gaze drags over her for a second, completely distracted by all that skin. Next thing I know, she launches the puck at me with a speed that’s simply impressive. Those few precious seconds of confusion are enough for the puck to slip by me into the goal.
“Wait.” Her eyes widen as she waves her mallet toward the slot. “Did you miss that on purpose?”
I toss my mallet on the table. “For once, Scarlett, I didn’t.”
Her mouth slowly widens into a grin. “So that means I won, fair and square?”
Never mind the reality of this screwed-up situation—that the moment she stood in front of me, I couldn’t focus on the game. I tip my head back. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
“Then you owe me a dance, Brendan Marco.”
I groan. “Anything but that.”
There are some things I won’t do, and dancing is one of them. It’s not that I dance badly; actually, I’m pretty decent. I’m still resentful that Mom forced me into dance lessons when I was young. I was teased about it in elementary school, even if it did help me become a better athlete.
But now, the only time I dance is if it’s absolutely necessary, like when the Crushers required a choreographed dance for a fundraiser. Otherwise, I don’t. Period.
“You can’t say no. I won.” She looks up at me with those big dark eyes again, and I already know what my answer will be. “One dance, Bren. Just like old times.”
Which is exactly why I shouldn’t do it. I remember that dance—the night that changed everything between us. One dance led to a kiss that I’ve replayed so many times it’s embarrassing. And here she is, asking me to do it again.
“Scarlett.” I sigh, looking between her and the dance floor, knowing what this will do to me. “I don’t dance. You know that.”
“Come on, Bren.” She grabs my hand, trying to drag me there against my will. And because her hand is touching mine, I can’t seem to stop myself from following her.
“This song? Really?” I cringe as the first line of “Shake It Off” blares through the speaker, a song she used to play at our bonfires. Swift’s entire 1989 was on repeat during our summers together in high school.
“It’s classic!”
“Scarlett, this is so high school.”
Her lips quirk. “Did you mean to quote a Taylor Swift song?”
“What do you think?” I remember our running joke—seeing how many of Swift’s titles we could sneak into a conversation without the other calling us out.
She lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you seriously challenging me to that game right now?” We both know how this ends. She doesn’t just know Taylor Swift songs—she speaks Taylor.
“Scarlett, you need to calm down.” I almost keep a straight face, but at the last second, lose it.
She cackles with laughter. “Good one. But if you think you can beat me, you’re on your own, kid.” Then she winks.
I might be up by one quote, but there’s no universe where I win this. She made me listen to the entire Taylor Swift discography all those years ago—something I only endured because it was her. And even back then, she knew every word by heart.
After I left for the Marines, I listened to those songs on repeat before falling asleep every night. Texas. California. Australia. Germany. They were a lifeline, a way to keep her close when she was so far away. Reputation. Lover. Folklore. Every song carried her voice with it in my mind.
I could picture her singing along while getting ready in the morning, and the soundtrack to her life as she drove to Magnolia Brew and worked her shift at the cafe. Those songs became the thread that tied me to her for years.
As she walks backward now, still tugging me toward the dance floor, memories stir that I’d buried long ago.
“Scarlett,” I exhale, finally giving in. “I don’t stand a chance against you.”
And I don’t just mean the game.
I mean this dance. The pretending. This woman who’s been under my skin for half my life.
I have never stood a chance.