I glance back at Todd, who looks very pleased with himself, then slide the plate across the table toward Eli. “Knock yourself out.”
Because if I don’t get out of here soon, Iwilldo something reckless.
Like climb over this booth and kiss Todd Shaw in front of everyone.
The parking lotoutside the diner is buzzing—half the team is still riding the high of the win, the other half is trying to out-shout each other with their version of the best play of the night.
Coach barely has to raise his voice to get us on the bus, but he does anyway. “Let’s go, boys, bellies are full, now haulass.”
I climb the steps two at a time and slip into a seat near the back before anyone can try to sit beside me. I stretch out, close my eyes for half a second?—
Then I feel it.
The shift of weight. The brush of a shoulder. The familiar smell of shampoo washing over me.
Todd drops into the seat next to me like he’s done it a hundred times. He didn’t hesitate for even a second.
“Comfortable?” I ask, one brow raised as I turn to him and see him sprawling out, one leg in the aisle.
He smirks, voice low enough that the noise around us swallows most of it. “Figured I’d save you from Peter’s snoring. He normally crashes on the way back to the hotel.”
“Selfless.”
“And I’m great company.”
I snort. He is, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.
He leans forward, stretching his legs out like he owns the whole row. “You weren’t saving this for someone else, were you?”
“You’d know if I was.”
His mouth twitches. “Good. I like this view.”
I glance out the window. “Of Ohio?”
“No,” he says, eyes dragging over me, lazy and amused. “Of you trying really hard not to smile.”
My lips curve before I can stop them. “Cocky.”
“You like it.”
I shake my head and pretend to adjust my hoodie, keeping my voice low. “You really going to sit here the whole ride and flirt with me in front of the team?”
He shrugs. “They won’t notice.”
“Theywill.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
His knee brushes mine, subtle as anything, but it zings straight through me. I don’t pull away.
He doesn’t either.
Outside the bus, Coach is herding the stragglers and threatening to leave anyone who’s not on in thirty seconds.
After a few minutes, the bus lurches forward, headlights cutting through the dark as we roll out of the parking lot. Inside, voices lower, and the engine hum takes over. Every so often, laughter spikes or a phone buzzes with music someone forgot to mute, but most of the team is settling into the short ride.
Outside, streetlights flash in slow intervals, casting silver light over Todd’s face, then shadow, then light again. It’s like watching someone behind glass—beautiful and untouchable.
