Real smooth.
In my defense, the offer came out of left field.
Or is it right field?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I never saw it coming. That’s not what Devin and I are about. We’re casual. No labels. No expectations. No meeting the family.
Apparently, he didn’t get that memo.
Ahogarse en un vaso de agua.
Right. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing.
It was a casual, last-minute invitation. He was probably celebrating with the guys, feeling great about today’s shutout, and made the offer without thinking. For all I know, he invited the whole team.
I draw a steadying breath and check my phone, hoping for a response.
Nothing.
I stare at the screen, willing him to say something. Anything.
Heck, I’d settle for a GIF at this point.
I’d wanted to say yes. To accept the dinner invitation, even though the idea of meeting his parents scares the crap out of me. I missed him over break and though we exchanged a few texts, it wasn’t the same.
If he offers again, say yes.
Or I could text and say I changed my mind?
A pair of pristine white sneakers enter my field of vision and there’s a quietsnickas Coach Sharpe unlocks the door to his office. “Thank you for waiting, Miss Cruz.”
Like I had a choice.
I stuff my phone in my back pocket and look up, realizing for the first time that he’s not alone. Coach Miller is with him, her face a blank mask.
Mierda.
Why is she here? The last time we all met like this, I got busted for pranking the football team and saddled with mascot duties.
Dread pools low in my belly and a cold sweat beads between my breasts.
I’m supposed to be turning in my Wildcat costume today.
That was the deal.
So why is she here?
Only one way to find out.
I grab my duffle bag from the floor and trail them into the office, déjà vu sweeping over me as I drop into a chair opposite Coach Sharpe’s desk.
His office is light and airy, the white walls lined with colorful cheer photos and polished trophies that reflect the late afternoon sun.
The atmosphere does little to put my nerves at ease.
Coach Sharpe sinks into an oversized leather chair before leaning forward and folding his hands on the Wildcat blotter that covers his desk.
He clears his throat and adrenaline spikes through my system. “Miss Cruz.”
