“Where did he want you to go?”

“A bigger Big Ten school. Penn State. Notre Dame.” One large hand taps the dashboard. “Anywhere but here, really.

“Ah, I see. That’s why you chose Iowa.” His one act of rebellion. “Do your parents come to see you play?”

“My daddy was so fuckin’ pissed, he boycotted my games for the first two years.” Jackson rubs his nose. “He’s been to a few lately, but only b’cause…”

I wish he’d finish his sentence, so I prod him. “Because what?”

He twitches, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Cause…” His throat clears. “This is between you and me, now, yeah?”

This is a major moment—Jackson Jennings doesn’t open up to just anyone. I can see the hesitation in his eyes from my spot in the passenger seat, so him offering up information…

Huge.

I suck in a breath. Let it out. Make a tiny sign of the cross on my chest that he can’t see in the near dark. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye…

“I promise I won’t say anything.”

He can trust me.

“Pops is only comin’ to my games because it’s almost draft season and he wants me to enter, so he’s bein’ supportive to pressure me into it.”

The draft.

Wow.

My little brain can barely comprehend what this means in the grand scheme of things. Here I am worried about my bagel supply running low and what internship I want in my hometown, and Jackson has to decide if he’s entering the draft to play professional football.

My problems seem so freaking stupid. Small. Insignificant.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Again, his answer is to lift one shoulder. “But…”

I wait, knowing there’s more to this story. Wait while he drives, turning on my street, finding my house, and putting his truck in park.

Jackson’s head hits the back of the headrest, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. “I want it on my terms, not my daddy’s.”

His use of the word daddy is strange to me since I call my father “Dad,” but coupled with his Southern drawl, it sounds adorable rolling off his tongue.

“I want the pros for myself.” His voice is low, gravelly. “Why is that so fuckin’ hard for him to understand?”

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish…

I wish I could do something to cheer him up.

“Hey.” I put my hand on his firm bicep, and he looks down at where my fingers rest. “Where is this kiss happening?” I swallow. “And when?”

His broad shoulders shrug. “You don’t have to kiss me, Charlotte.”

He sounds weary and pathetic, as if he’s just stood in the rain, staring through a window at a room full of dry people laughing and drinking and eating, as if he will never know what it feels like to be inside. As if he deserves to be used by his father and doesn’t know the relationship should be any other way.

“Don’t have to kiss you? A deal is a deal.”

“Not really.”

Oh, I’m kissing you, Jackson Jennings. I’m going to kiss the Southern stuffing right out of you.

“Okay, well now you just sound pitiful. Cheer up, my gosh.” I fake a bright smile, giving his muscle a flirtatious squeeze.

“Tonight then.”

Yes, that’s the spirit! Although a bit more enthusiasm would be preferred.

“Um, okay.” I fidget, weighted down by a sudden case of nerves. I am no seductress, and even though it’s just a kiss, I’m not the one who initiates them. Ever. “You can walk me to the door and, you know—I can do it there.”

Jackson’s laugh is loud and boisterous, truly amused. “Whatever floats your boat, darlin’.”

He hasn’t called me darlin’ since we first met, and I’m reminded how much I hated it at first, because I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me and I just assumed he was a player who called women darlin’ so he wouldn’t have to remember their names.

Darlin’.

I love it.

Jackson

“You don’t have to do this,” I relent, feeling like a horse’s ass for making the bet in the first place. A woman should get to choose who she’s intimate with, and I’m a dickhead for backing Charlie into a proverbial corner by opening my fat mouth about kissing me. “I’m not going to hold you to it.”

I watch her ass as she marches up her front walkway, making a beeline for the front door.

“Nope. A bet is a bet.”

“In all fairness, it wasn’t so much a bet as me being a cocky asshole.”

She puffs out her chest and poke herself in the breastplate. “I’m a woman of my word.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is, you want to kiss me.”

Holy shit, she wants to kiss me.

Who am I kidding? All girls want to kiss me—this is nothing new. I’m a fucking stud, headed for the goddamn NFL; obviously tail gets thrown in my direction from all angles on a daily basis.

But Charlie wanting to kiss me is altogether different.

Charlie is Charlie, and nothing about her is easy.

So this? This feels fucking great—fantastic, even.

Like a small victory, a euphoria I haven’t felt in a lot of years, including when I’m on the playing field, running a damn football in a stadium full of screaming fans.

This…

This is better.

“I’m not saying I want to kiss you. I’m saying I’m going to.”

Same thing, cupcake.

“And I’m saying you don’t have to.”

“Why are we arguing about this, then? Don’t you want me to?” Her shoulders slump, defeated.

Shit.

“I didn’t say that, either—I’m a guy, we’re idiots. Why do you think I was talkin’ so stupid?”

“Tawkin,” she echoes, turning to face me once we reach her door. Her hands rise to brush the collar of my shirt, a smile playing at her lips. “Tawkin stoopid…”

“You makin fun of me?” It wouldn’t be the first time she mocked my accent, but this time she’s doing it directly to my face, our faces and mouths and hands mere inches apart.

The heat from her body warms the skin on my neck, hands still lingering. Fingers brushing the place I painstakingly shaved not hours ago to look slightly presentable.

Earlier, when I was getting dressed, I’d been tempted to call my mama for advice—not that she’d have any. But I’ve never been on a date before and figured she might be able to, I don’t know. Tell me what to wear. Something, I don’t know. Then I thought better of it; knowing Mama would tell Pops and knowing that when he found out, he’d probably lose his shit.

Girls equals distraction.

Oddly enough, for once, I don’t give a fuck what my father thinks.

I’m twenty-two years old; it’s time to stop living in fear of a man who ultimately has no control over my future. I do.

Me and my agent, Brock—only we decide what I do and where I’ll go when I get drafted.

And I will.

I’m predicted to go early in the second round.