Now that I’m sitting in my office feeling very hot with my tail between my legs, wishing to all the stars and aliens that I could slip back into his office and take them all back, I decide that romance must be a muscle. I have to train it and the only way to do that is to consistently focus on it. Also study. I think my idea might have been close, but the execution needed some work.
He’s going to know they’re from me. But I didn’t want to get caught there like a deer in headlights being the one who trashed his office with little scraps of paper that should not have seen the light of day!
I’m mortified. Absolutely fucking horrified.
Maybe I should message him now and apologize. You know, before he sees the mess.
A knock at my door has my heart nearly in my throat and I stare. It’s not him breaking up with me, right? Maybe I should have given him a longer disclaimer—I’m an asshole, I’m hateful as a defense mechanism, and I suck at romance. And origami, though I didn’t know that until last night.
“Coach?”
I sigh a breath of relief. “Come in, Peyton.”
He opens the door and flashes me a wide smile. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi. What’s up?”
Peyton crosses the room and falls into the chair across from me. “So, there’s an athletic department baby picture competition. Whichever picture is the cutest and has the most votes, wins. The money raised goes to that department.”
“How are they raising money?”
“I think the voters have to buy tickets to vote. It’s just a campus thing this time.” He shrugs.
“Okay, cool.”
“Is it cool if we join?”
“Are you the spokesperson, Peyton? I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”
He laughs. “Kind of. I always volunteer to talk to you.”
There it is. His cheeky smile that’s definitely a little flirty.
“Yes, you can participate. You can participate in any department fundraiser going forward.”
His eyebrows rise in surprise, then his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Really?”
“Really. Don’t question me or I might change my mind.”
Peyton raises his hands, laughing. “Okay, okay.” He pauses again before saying, “They’re talking about a barbeque competition this spring. Teams. The teams are wide open—including that different players from different teams can team up.”
“Yeah?” I ask, wondering why I haven’t heard about this yet. Probably in a fucking email.
He nods. “Me, Winston, and Eli were thinking of making a team.”
“You know barbeque?” I ask.
He snorts. “Nope. We’ve been binging shows though and taking notes. Hopefully, we’ll just absorb a winning dish.”
I chuckle. “Sounds good.”
“So… we can have four teammates,” he hedges, and I know where this is going.
Sighing, I say, “Peyton, didn’t we already discuss?—”
“I’m not sure you saying ‘this isn’t going to happen’ is a discussion,” he snarks, crossing his arms.
Looking at his defiance, I’m suddenly reminded of the post I read online a few weeks ago about boys being taught that when someone tells you no, you just keep trying. Try harder. Get better. Be the best choice until they tell you yes.
