No texts from him with a change of plans, so I sent him one, letting him know I was here. Maybe he’d had to run back out to the store. I peered around the parking lot. His black Wrangler was conspicuously absent.
7:12. I retreated to my car to consider my options. Plus, standing at his door that long probably looked suspicious to his neighbors, especially with Oscar still going crazy. I texted again.
7:31. I left.
7:56. I scrubbed off the last of the eyeliner I’d painstakingly rimmed my eyes with. What a fucking waste. Braless, with comfy cotton boyshorts, pajama pants, and a tank top on, I scooped up Sharky. This whole no roommate thing was going to work out just fine, considering I’d already thrown my discarded clothes onto the other bed.
Me and Sharky were about to get our Netflix binge on. Oh, and ice cream. I’d bought some ice cream on the way back. The good stuff that had a thousand calories in each tiny pint and was hand-churned by magical leprechauns with healing powers for situations just like this.
8:02. My phone buzzed.
Laird: Reese, I’m sorry. I’m just getting home and I didn’t realize it was so late.
Laird: I had a huge fight with my dad today and then I drove around to calm down and lost track of time.
Laird: I fucked up. I know I did.
Laird: Can I come see you? I can bring over steaks in 30 minutes?
I wavered. If there was one thing I understood, it was fighting with your parents.
But… he’d left me hanging with no word. I’d put on fucking eyeliner. And sexy underwear. And shaved everything. Everything. Yeah, his loss this time.
I took a selfie, framing the ice cream, Sharky, and a decent portion of the curve of my left breast in the shot just to emphasize what he’d missed out on, and sent it to him.
Me: You’ve been replaced tonight. Maybe we should slow down and try again another time.
And then I turned my phone off, ate the best ice cream of my life, and watched a whole season’s worth of Pitch while drooling over a bearded Mark-Paul Gosselaar. I didn’t think of Laird once.
Except later, I dreamt I had a threesome with both Mark-Paul and Laird and that we rounded all the bases and hit some homeruns.
I told you.
That ice cream was magical.
Reese
The last four days had been a blur and, despite his best efforts, I’d barely said two words to Laird. Between classes, volunteering at the hospital on different days than each other, and freshman orientation nonsense, the only time our paths had crossed was Tuesday’s band practice. The choreography we learned that day was much more technically challenging, not leaving much down time for chatting, and I’d rushed off for a resident advisor meeting as soon as it ended. He’d tried to meet me for lunch yesterday, but our schedules were off by twenty minutes and I couldn’t swing it without being late for Calc I.
We’d texted a few times, but the messages were stilted at best. It was my fault. I didn’t know how to create distance from Laird without making it weird. How to slow things down without turning them off.
I reread his last words from this morning.
Laird: Can you get to practice thirty minutes early? I miss you.
I hadn’t responded, but here I was, waiting like an idiot in the equipment room for him to arrive to maybe get a chance to talk to him alone and in person. Helpless to resist, despite knowing this couldn’t end well. I wiped my palms on my gym shorts for the third time. My heart beat an uneven rhythm against my ribs as I checked the time on my phone again.
The door creaked open. I swallowed hard past the ball of nerves in my throat.
“Showing up early doesn’t earn you brownie points, hotshot,” Marco sneered as he entered the room to collect his drum.
“Hello to you too.” I fiddled with my harness while avoiding eye contact, adjusting the padding that didn’t need adjusting.
He grabbed his gear and hesitated before exiting. Flustered, I stooped down to re-tie my double-knotted shoelaces.
“Yes?” I asked when it became obvious he wasn’t going to leave.
“You missed a spot when you cleaned my room this week. The desk was still a mess. Do better next time.” The door didn’t quite hit him on the ass on his way out, even though I summoned all my Batman-superpowers and willed it to happen. I flipped him off like a middle-school boy instead, with outrageous exaggeration and both hands, because I knew without a doubt he couldn’t see me.
Bubba came in next, followed by Charlie and Cade. A quick glance at my phone confirmed that practice started in twenty-five minutes. Laird was late, and the opportunity was gone—again.
When Smith barged through the door a short time later, I gave up any pretense of fumbling with my gear and fell in step with him to head to the practice field.
Smith moaned about the semester-long project we’d already been assigned in biology, but I barely heard him. My eyes were laser-focused on the dark-haired guy stripping his shirt off in the distance, revealing the abs my fingers ached to trace again. Laird Bronson. Already on the field. I must not have shown up early enough. Or maybe when I hadn’t replied to his text, he thought I wasn’t coming.
“Right?” Smith nudged me.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Mmhmm,” I agreed, forcibly ripping my attention away from all that tan muscle and sinew.
Must. Not. Drool.
In public, anyway.
“Really?” Smith raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’ve fantasized about drizzling Marco in warm caramel too?”
I screwed my eyes shut and shook my head violently, trying to force that mental atrocity from my mind. “What the fuck, Robin? Why would you even joke about something that bad?”
He tipped his head back and let loose his spectacular laugh at my expense. “Because, Batman, you were ignoring your sidekick. Not cool. I’m not over here talking just because I like the sound of my own voice.”
Appropriately chastised, I flattened my lips and dipped my head. “Sorry. I was just preoccupied.”
“Picturing a certain someone covered in caramel? Someone li—”
My elbow connected with his ribs before he could complete his sentence, and I narrowed my eyes in a pointed warning to keep him from opening his mouth again. “Watch it. Or I’ll partner with someone else for the Bio project and leave you hanging.”
The stricken expression on his face had me rolling my eyes. As if Batman could partner with someone other than Robin.
When we reached the edge of the twenty-yard line where the other snares had gathered, Laird and Marco were huddled over a clipboard together, much like they were the first day of auditions. Something about that white plastic rectangle seemed ominous. As though it not only held my fate regarding my position on the field, but possibly a hidden message from Laird.
What did it mean if I earned a spot? Was it preferential treatment? Or what if I didn’t? Was it because I wasn’t good enough? Because Laird was upset about my request to slow things between us down? Or, on a more basic level, because I was a girl?
Marco glanced up at me and scowled.
I couldn’t interpret it, but my muscles stiffened in response.
Laird didn’t look at me and his body language gave nothing away.
Smith bumped my shoulder. “You okay there, Batman? You’re looking a little tense.”
“Gotham City has been a little rough this week.” I forced my shoulders to relax and unclenched my jaw.
He flung his arm around my shoulder. “Want to grab dinner after this? We could—”
Laird cleared his throat. “Hate to interrupt you guys setting up a date,” his green eyes glittered as they pinned me down, “but we have a practice to get through. Our first game is Saturday so today is essentially a dress rehearsal. Before we begin, we need to officially announce who will be marching on the field when the Sharks take on Louisiana State this weekend.”
This was it. I couldn’t watch.
I studied my shoes instead, the way the rubber on the right one was starting to curl away from the toe and the laces on the left one were uneven. I should fix it. Maybe try to get some of the grass stains out.
“Me. Marco. Bubba. Van. Charlie.” His voice carried no particular inflection as he continued down the list. “Morris. Topher. Cade. Smith. And Reese.”