“You excited?” He’s beaming, energy bouncing off him.
“Not anymore.”
“Ah, come on, Soot.” Jaxon calls me Soot because my hair reminds him of a fire. “This is going to be great.”
Seeing more people pour into the space, I whirl to face Cooper. “Remind me again why you thought this was a good idea?”
“Your pre-eval had me thinking. You need one too. I need to know what I’m working with.”
“And my terrible encounter at the grocery store wasn’t enough?”
“No. Here, you’ll be able to date multiple guys in the span of?—”
“I know what speed dating is,” I growl, annoyance tickling up my spine.
“I’ve already assumed we are going to need to work on being comfortable with small talk.”
“These are my friends.” I gesture to the people in a half circle around us. “I’m comfortable with them.”
“But you don’t know them.” He mimics my awkward hand wave, pointing to frat boys and other guys from Lakeland. He must read my face because he follows up with, “Yes, Dave. Smalltalk. You are, and I say this kindly, terrible at it. Especially with people you don’t know.”
It’s not that I don’t like small talk in general. Sure, with the male population, it makes me more nervous, and I end up forgetting how to form sentences or how to pronounce basic words, or in the worst cases, start rambling off unnecessary facts. I prefer deeper conversations with meaning.
You can tell me your favorite color, but I also want to know why.
I love getting to know people, remembering tidbits about them, and making them feel seen. The stretch of years in the foster home, all I craved was someone to see me. No one deserves to be invisible.
“Fine.” I blow out a hot breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
The first fewrounds are easy. Chase, Dawson, and Jaxon all hyping me up. My fourth speed date is Beck.
“How’d you get roped into this?”
His jaw twitches. “Cooper owes me a night of babysitting.”
I ask him another question, but he doesn’t answer. Sips on his beer and broods. We sit there in silence for the next three minutes.
He flexes his hand against the glass when his phone buzzes, but Beckett doesn’t reach for it. There’s another notification, and this one, I swear, has a rare smile peeking through. Maybe if I close one eye and squint the other, I’d see a true Beckett St. James smile.
“You can answer that,” I encourage.
His light blue eyes snatch on mine. That sliver must have been a figment of my imagination with how tightly his lips are pressed together.
“Or not,” I quickly modify my answer. “Is that a new tattoo?” He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater, and on his forearm is a large drawing. It looks like a child drew it.
Beckett is covered in tattoos. I’ve seen a few, mainly on his arms and the one on his thigh, but apparently his entire torso and back are covered too.
“Madeline drew it.” That’s his little sister.
“That’s sweet. Does she want to be an artist? Next time Meave comes to town, she could?—”
I’m interrupted by a loud commotion and laughing coming from the other end of the line of tables. I glance over to find Elliot with her head thrown back, laughing with a student I don’t recognize. Maybe he’s a freshman?
The buzzer goes off. Another hockey player sits across from me—he must be how Cooper found out about this. Apparently, two of them were talking about signing up at practice.
He’s cute. Really cute. Softer features, his face isn’t cut like glass as most of the team. Buzzed blond hair and dark forest green eyes. There’s a smattering of freckles on his left cheek and a birthmark next to his right eye.
“I’m Seb Horváthski,” he introduces himself with a heavy Swedish accent.
