We pass the moms again, who watch us like a pair of scouts assessing draft picks.
“Do you remember Mrs. Sharma’s Shakespeare class?” I ask.
“Yes, Romeo. I most certainly do. And it seems Marlow never let go of her role as Juliet.”
“There’s no mistaking the way she stares daggers in our direction,” I say, uncomfortably aware.
“Rest assured, those are aimed at me. Oh, and look. You have a fan club.”
Several women watch us dance as if hoping for a turn.
“I’ve conditioned myself to ignore the demanding gaze of women on the sidelines. It’s not a look of interest or love. No, they want something from me and it doesn’t feel right. It’s another arrow altogether.”
“But can you blame them?” Pippa squeezes her eyes shut. “I mean, it seems part of the gig, being a famous football player and all.”
“I guess,” I answer, still, after all these years, not used to it.
“And when I was talking to Abigail and her friends?—”
“About me,” I hint, wanting her to define the timeline of the crush. Past, present, future?
“We’d been discussing our respective boarding schools. Hinnifin Hall came up and naturally, you did too as the pride of the Hinnifin Hornets.”
“We did have a good rugby year,” I say, reflecting.
Pippa clears her throat. “They also discussed a certain bum.”
“Like a beggar?”
“No, like a backside.”
While with Pippa, I almost completely forgot what brought me across the Atlantic in the first place, which reminds me that whatever sizzles between us is about to take a thirty-day plunge when I go to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
“Oh, that bum. Regrettably, #BruiserButt is making the rounds. That was an unfortunate error in judgment.”
“It captivated the world.”
I chuckle. “I guess you could say we’re even.”
She goes still.
I stumble slightly. “I’m sorry. That was dumb. I just meant?—”
“I know what you meant.” No doubt, she’s thinking of the chocolate thing and the saucident. Her cheeks turn the color to match and she tries to pull away.
“The song isn’t over,” I say.
“I need to leave.” Sweat beads along her hairline. “Our mothers may be enjoying this, but I know better than to?—”
“Wait.” Traces of desperation fill my otherwise flirtatious voice. My fingers tighten around hers. Seeing our hands together is my seventeen-year-old self’s dream come true. Then I glance over my shoulder, afraid I’m going to see Freddie charging toward us.
“I’d like to keep dancing,” I say simply.
“Be careful, I don’t want to cause you to break an ankle or crash into the piano. Your job requires the use of your limbs.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“So you don’t disappoint your mom?”
