Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I stop, my chest rising. Shit, I just . . . spilled all that out. My throat bobs, and I try to shake off the past. I roll my neck as the silence builds. I raise my eyes to hers.

No pity there, just acceptance and a nod. “She was not your destiny, Dev. You’re meant for more. She did you a favor. Somewhere out there, a girl is waiting for you. She’s going to rock your world and give you so many little football-playing babies—no stick-armed kids for you. I promise you wherever she is, she still thinks about you.” Her gaze drifts over me, lingering. “Yeah, she messed up.”

“You gonna let me hit some shit or what? I’m ready.”

“One more for me.” Leaning over, she wiggles her ass and taps another mug shaped like a pair of boobs. “This is for Myrtle. She needs to get out of the hospital, and her daughter better check on her soon!” The club crashes into the glass and sends it off into the night.

Laughing, we bump into each other as we maneuver around, and I take her spot at the stump. She hands off the club and presses against me as she helps me adjust the goggles. With a satisfied smirk, she moves away to place another ugly vase on the stump.

“Where do you find this stuff?”

“Aunt Clara is addicted to yard sales. She picks them up and brings them here. Her secret boyfriend, Scotty, comes out and gets the pieces and uses them for mosaics.” She pokes me in the arm. “You can’t repeat that. He likes his manly persona too much to admit he does art in secret.”

I nod my agreement and whack the vase, and it disintegrates and scatters, the sound more satisfying than I imagined. “That felt good.”

“But you didn’t say what it was for.”

I cup my hands and call out, “Preston, you suck!”

“Go again, and do it for you,” she says sternly as she puts a teacup on the surface.

I swing the club and call out, “Hannah, hope you’re happy! I’m fucking famous! And rich!”

A bowl appears on the stump. She backs away, and I swing. “Get your life together, Dad!”

She puts an owl cookie jar up, and we burst out laughing. “Had to,” she murmurs. “It’s fate.”

“This one’s for you, baby,” I say and whack it. “Curses aren’t real!” I yell.

We keep up a steady pace, her putting up random glassware, me hitting. By the eighth one, I’m bouncing on my toes like I’m about to take the field, catch the ball, and run it in for a touchdown. “Addictive,” I murmur.

I shout whatever I feel like, from getting that Super Bowl ring on my finger to the Walmart dude who put his hands on Giselle, even though from the sound of it, she scared him with threats about her mama.

Another comes, then another.

I roll my shoulders, loosening the muscles. “What’s next?”

She places something on the stump.

Wrapped in purple tissue paper, the item is half the size of the palm of my hand.

“A gift for you,” she says, her face flushing, her eyes bright.

“Oh?” I prop the club against the barn, pick up the package, and stare down at it, pleasure mixing with adrenaline, heady and thick. “No one’s bought me a gift for no reason in . . . well, never.” My hands clench around it.

She moves from foot to foot. “Ah, it’s not much. I grabbed it when I picked up some clothes for Myrtle at this boutique downtown after class . . .” She stops as I quickly undo the paper.

“Giselle, baby,” I breathe, holding the carved stone butterfly in the palm of my hand. “It’s beautiful.”

She takes a step toward me and peers down at it. Delicate, with spread wings, the stone is soft and smooth, about an inch thick. “I saw the purple and blue colors mixed together, and it made me think of you. It’s a charm for strength, the lady said—you keep it close and rub when you need to feel centered.” She clears her throat. “You can put it on a desk or wherever, and when I’m out of your hair, you’ll remember tonight and not think I was too much of a pain in the ass.”

I close my fingers around it, rubbing my fingers over the surface. “I’ll keep it in my pocket every day.”

Her breath hitches. “You don’t have to—”

“You aren’t a pain in the ass.”

“Give me time.”

I stick my hand in my pocket, curling around the stone. “My guess is your apartment isn’t going to be livable for weeks. The basement has structural damage. You’re about to start fall semester, and you don’t need the extra hassle of searching for an apartment. Stay as long as you want. Be my real roommate.”

What the hell am I saying?