There’s something real between us…

The question is, what am I willing to do about it?

19

She’s ten minutes late and I’m antsy, twitching, fiddling with the menu and tapping the tabletop.

My pulse spikes as I see her pull into the lot. From inside Paulo’s, I watch as she parks her car next to my truck, gets out, and dashes for the door. She breezes in and stops at the hostess stand, and I take the few seconds to take her in. Her hair is down and shines under the lights, her face bare of makeup, her lips a deep red. She’s wearing black leggings, royal blue high-top Chucks, and a pale blue sweater, cropped. That one slice of skin is enough to make my hands clench, to picture my fingers encircling her waist and—

She turns and sees me, and I start.

Must. Not. Lust. For. My. Friend’s. Ex.

She smiles the entire way to the table I got for us in the back. The place is packed tonight, and there’s a band playing on the small stage several feet away. Country music. Not something I listen to a lot, but it fits the ramshackle bar. I scanned the place when I came in. Mostly older crowd. No one from Braxton.

Who cares? the voice in my head says. She’s not with him anymore.

Yet…

It does matter. It’s been four days since they broke up. What kind of friend and frat brother would I be to move in on her? A shitty one.

I stand when she reaches the table and catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a stupid smile on my face and shit, shit, shit. I shut it down as I pull out the chair across from me.

She sits. “Sorry I’m late. My parents called while I was driving. You look great,” she murmurs as she settles in, her gaze lingering on my Badgers shirt.

I grunt.

Her mouth curls up. “Angsty River tonight—got it.”

I huff out a laugh. “Do you always say what you’re thinking?”

“Um, it’s a little worse lately.” She stares down at the menu, her fingers twirling a piece of hair. Another tell of hers. When Harper and company get in the elevator, she touches her hair. When Whitman calls on her in class, she does the same. She’s nervous.

My eyes drift over the menu, the words jumbling together in the dim light. I blink and focus but it doesn’t help. Whatever. Pizza is easy. I always get the same thing.

Our waitress appears. She’s in her mid-twenties and wears a broad smile. She flicks a glance at Anastasia then lingers on me.

Her face brightens. “Hey. River Tate, right?”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

She lets out a little squeal, her hands fluttering. “My family are huge Pythons fans and loved your dad. I went to Braxton, and when I heard you came here instead of one of the bigger schools, my family went nuts. You coming back? I heard you haven’t decided.”

Anastasia raises her head and looks at me, then her.

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Can I get your autograph? And a picture?” Before I can respond, she pulls out her phone, sits down next to me, and snaps a photo. She gets back up, her hand landing on my arm as she gives me a squeeze and a blinding smile. “Oh my God, I can’t wait to send this to my roomie. She’s crazy about you too. You’re the hottest player. You’re fast on the field, of course, that counts—”

Anastasia juts in, “I’ll have a Coke to drink to start and some breadsticks with marinara.”

I dip my head and hide my smile. Oh, Anastasia, you little firecracker.

“I’ll have a water,” I add. “And double the breadstick order.”

The waitress—her name tag says Sissy—grimaces. “Sure. On it.” She leaves, then turns back around. “Um, are you two, ah, together?” She titters. “I mean, just wondering.”

“Yes, he’s taken,” Anastasia says with a flick of her hair.

After a little harrumph, Sissy walks off, her spine straight.

“Why are you laughing?” Anastasia says, eyeing me. “She was flirting with you. I saved you from further flirting, although I bet she slips you her phone number.”

She’s jealous.

I lean in, elbows on the table. “What color is your hair underneath that lavender?”

She props her elbows on the table as well, mimicking me. “Black like my mom’s. It takes bleach and a great stylist to get this pastel hue. Like it?”

Love it.

“It’s alright.” The color suits her.

She gives me a half-grin. “You think Sissy will spit in my Coke?”

“Nah. You can drink my water if you want. We’ll switch.”

A sheepish smile crosses her face. “Maybe I was rude? It’s just…she touched you.”

I dip my head to hide my smile. “When you have a public image, people don’t have boundaries.” Random fans do swarm, but I don’t let myself get caught up in the hype. Football has never been about the attention; it’s about the game, the feel of that pigskin in my hands. It makes me feel powerful, the one thing I’m good at.

Afterward, we order pizza. Turns out we like the same kind: pepperoni and cheese only. Honestly, the food tastes like cardboard, but neither of us comment on it. We can’t stop talking. She puts in a to-go order for June that she’s going to pick up on our way out.

She pushes her plate to the side and sets a small rectangular box on the table.

“What’s this?” I ask.

Pink rises up her face. “Nothing much. I mean, I saw it in the bookstore today and thought you’d like it.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like, a diamond tennis bracelet or anything.”

I laugh.

She inches it toward me. “Go on. It won’t bite.”

I take the box, my fingers lingering over the notebook paper she wrapped it in. For River is printed in large letters. I untie the little ribbon, open the box, then glance up at her animated expression.

“Tada! It’s a pencil!” she exclaims, as if it’s a million dollars.

“Thank you.”

She cocks her head. “It’s not just a pencil. It has a unicorn head as an eraser—with sparkles in its mane. I looked for a pen, but all they had were just the regular kind…”

Oh, I get it. It makes my heart skip.

She looks down. “Is it silly that I remember you dropping your pen that night?”

“No.” I take it out of the box and gaze down at it. “A little piece of magic, which I actually really need right now. Thank you.”

She clears her throat. “Ah, yeah. We both need it, right? Neither of us have a clue what’s next. ‘We still have time to be what we want to be,’ remember?”

“The Outsiders.”

“I want to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. You want to wow people with football. And you will.” She smiles, then fidgets. “You’re staring.”

Because you believe in me.

Because you’re beautiful.

She’s the center of a hurricane, a calm that lulls you, then makes your world fucking amazing.

“I have to tell you something,” I say.

She leans in. “Yeah?”

I tap my fingers on the table. “About the ski thing… I’m only staying one night. You wanted me to help with your”—I wince—“revenge, but it looks like I won’t be able to do much.”