But I knew there was something undeniably right, something specific about her that fit me like a key in a rusty old lock when I told her to watch out for Kincaid and she replied, “You mean the punk with the slippery hands and slow feet? Yeah, he outed himself as a dick waffle this morning. I asked him if this was his first season on the field. Surprises all around because it’s not. Then I asked whether he knew he wasn’t supposed to be throwing interceptions.” She leaned in, close enough for me to smell the citrus on her. Close enough for that scent to imprint itself on my nervous system. “He
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