Page 9 of Lovefool

Come on, dude! You’re striking out. Hard. This is embarrassing.

Suddenly, this miniature blonde bombshell steps into me, analyzing me far more closely than I’d like, as if perusing my poorly constructed charade for a hairline fracture that reveals the timid, crush-ridden boy underneath.

On the outside, I appear to be the calmest person in the room. People feel comforted by that. I truly believe I was put on this earth to help others, and I can’t do that if I go into every hypothetical with bazookas blazing.

My father is a firefighter. He puts his life at risk every day to save people. He’s the bravest person I know, and I’d be lying if I said that some part of me feels guilty for not contributing more to society. I want to be needed. But, realistically, where I’m needed most right now is at hockey practice.

Do I enjoy playing hockey? Absolutely. Do I think I’m good enough to go pro? Maybe, but it’s not what interests me. My friends, though—Crew and Knox—they’ve got that shit in the bag. They’re better than this school, and they’re going to make a name for themselves in the big league.

“Are you always this nervous?” Lake asks, more genuine than condescending, as if she can’t quite wrap her head around why someone like me would be paralyzed in the presence of someone like her.

She’s spunky. She doesn’t play it safe. Lake goes after what she wants, and it’s sexy as hell.

I fasten my gaze to the top of her head, feeling the broad width of my frame shrink the more she interrogates me. She’s really close to my face right now. Every thought embeds itself into my brain like blistering shrapnel, melting that little gray area responsible for emotional regulation.

My lips pop open to say something—anything—but Lake disassembles my cool-guy guise in a matter of seconds.

“Wait, am I making you nervous? You’re sweatier than usual.”

“Thanks?”

She lowers to the soles of her feet, but she can’t contain the little grin prodding at her mouth. “Sorry, I just meant—I’m surprised, is all.”

It’s my turn to share in the confusion. “Why?”

“You had a lot of charisma when we first met,” she explains.

“That was before I had a full-blown conversation with you.”

Before I got to know a glimmer of who you are beyond your reputation. You’re so much more than the victim in Buford’s story—or the villain, as he’s been relaying to anyone idiotic enough to listen.

Lake continues, choosing to ignore my answer. “I’m the outlaw around here. Nobody really cares about me. I play by my own rules, and most people don’t like that. But you, Sutton, you’re everyone’s friend. I’m honestly surprised the university president hasn’t given you the key to the school yet.”

I didn’t realize I had such a reputation. Like, yeah, sure, I saved that girl from almost getting flattened by a bicyclist, and I feed the clearly not malnourished squirrels on campus because I have enough trail mix to go around, but I’m not a celebrity Samaritan by any means.

Rallying a small morsel of confidence, I puff my chest out, willing the cramping in my belly to subside. “I care, Lake. A lot more than you think I do.”

She scoffs good-naturedly, letting my compliment roll off her shoulders. “You barely know me.”

In this very moment, something magical happens. A lightbulb goes off in my head, and considering my brain is usually out of service around a pretty girl with an even more stunning personality, this is unprecedented.

“I want to learn more. Over dinner.”

Lake perks up. “Dinner?”

I’m not a pro at flirting. It doesn’t come naturally to me. Sometimes I say the wrong thing, and I scare people away. Lake makes everything easy. Sure, I may be shaking like a ten-pound chihuahua caught in a rainstorm, but my unfettered desire to truly get to know her supersedes any of my irrational fears.

“We never did plan that date,” I say with a smile, fighting the urge to reach out and tuck a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.

Her pallor pinkens just slightly. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? Considering I’m your teammate’s ex?”

“I honestly think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. And if Buford has a problem with it, he can answer to me.”

Lake ponders my proposition, schooling her expression so I have no idea what she could possibly be thinking right now. Is she trying to find a polite way to turn me down? Is she weighing the pros and cons? Did I misread this entire situation and overestimate her attraction toward me?

My fingers claw at the clothes still bundled in the hammock of my arms, and a part of me wishes she hadn’t washed her scent away. Terpenes, petrichor, day-old perfume—I would’ve taken any of it.

It feels like an eternity drags by before she comes to a conclusion. My nerves are becoming concerningly more ungovernable—free agents of chaos. Operating with the means of elevating heart rates and slicking palms.