I’ve picked up my phone to text him a half-dozen times in the hour since I gave in to what I thought was over-paranoid paranoia to look up the Pounders’ roster, and every time, I’ve put it back down.
He asked me on a date.
And I want to go.
And I think it’s a date.
But maybe it’s not a date. Maybe it’s just him setting me up to make a friend.
WithFletcher’s fiancée.
It was theFletcher’s fiancéethat got me. I don’t know many Fletchers. But I looked up the roster anyway because there was this little voice whispering in the back of my head that this last week with Holt was too good to be true after the absolute roller coaster that my life has been since Abby Nora’s baby shower.
And there it is in full color.
A picture of Holt—myHolt—at the very top of the team roster. All of that dark hair. The chin dimple. The hooded brown eyes. The broad shoulders and thick chest.
Holding a rugby ball under one arm.
Miranda walks past my door, camera in hand, and gives me a wave.
I wave back.
Frantically.
Like, aget in here and shut the doorwave.
She grins as she joins me. “That’s a face. What’s up? Did you take out a billboard calling Abby Nora a twatmuffin and now you’re having second thoughts or need someone to blame it on? I would totally take the blame if you did. Our parents would blame my prefrontal cortex still not being fully developed. You don’t get that pass.”
“What? No. Shut the door. I—did you get a billboard?”
“No, but now I sort of want to.”
“Do not get a billboard. Please,pleaseshut the door.”
She gives me awhat the hell is wrong with you?look as she shuts the door. “The billboard’s getting more appealing by the minute…”
I wave away the teasing. “I have to ask you something andyou have to not laugh and also not tell anyone I asked because I’m asking forabsolutely no reason at all. Also, I’m so pissed that you picked French instead of Spanish or Italian in school, because I don’t want to say this in English.”
Her hazel eyes spark with mischief as she props a hip at the edge of my desk. “Riiiiiiight. Idle curiosity about something you can’t ask me in our native tongue with the door open. I’m sure it’s completely innocent.”
I’m screwed.
Whether or not I go to the movies with Holt and his friend tomorrow, I’m so screwed. “Why aren’t there pictures of the team players all over this building?”
“Usually are. They took them down for the renovations. Supposed to be done soon.” She grins at me. “Why? Did someone meet a player and not know it?”
I drop my head into my hands. “How serious is Dad about the players not looking at his daughters and how much of it is all talk?”
“Oh my god, is one of the players your baby daddy?”
“Sshhhhhh!Keep your voice down. What the hell is wrong with you? Andno. He’s?—”
I freeze.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
