“To answer your question, yes. Yes, I do behave myself.”
A tiny grunt escapes as though she disagrees. “We’ll also focus on communication skills, leadership qualities, appearance, and the ever-important first impression.”
I lean back in the chair. “What’s your first impression of me?”
She reviews her file. “A selfish, cocky, rascal.”
I press my hand against my chest at the blow to my ego. “Yeeowtch. I’m not even charming? What about attractive, intelligent, irresistible?” I smirk. “I’d say the same about you.”
Her mouth opens and closes. Color rises to her cheeks.
Then I recall something crucial about Pippa. She has her rules and one of them might be to keep her personal and professional lives separate. But why doesn’t she just say so? Why the sudden cold shoulder when we heated up the dance floor at the Smythe’s?
She was always honest and didn’t hold back speaking her mind. When the fire alarms repeatedly went off, ruining career day, she reported seeing a student messing with the fire alarm system. Our English teacher saidstolidlywasn’t a word and she proved that false. She challenged a guest speaker on campus when he refused to acknowledge that God played a role in creation.
As if my comment about being attractive, intelligent, and irresistible hangs in the air, she closes those big brown eyes that make me want to remain in this room forever. They’re eyes that still enter my dreams from time to time.
Taking a deep breath, she opens them and adjusts her glasses. “Chase, what do you want to be known for? What kind of legacy do you want to leave?”
At that, I drop all pretense of joking, flirting, and whatever wedged itself between us, upsetting her. I’ve thought a lot about that question after Cap passed away.
“When I’m gone, I want everyone I ever encountered to remember me as a man who showed up fully to everything he did. Who gave his all—one hundred percent. Who left everything on the field. Who lived with integrity, conscientiousness, and a commitment to faith.” I focus my eyes on hers. “That’s who I want you to know me as, Pippa.”
A long moment passes. It’s like we’re caught in a bubble of time and when it pops, we’ll know whether we’ll be able to move forward.
“Then you shouldn’t have fed me a sponge,” she blurts as if no longer able to hold back.
I scrape my hand along my jawline. “Is that what this is about?”
Her nostrils widen as she draws a deep breath. “What do you meanthis?”
“Since we sat down, you’ve been acting like you don’t know me. Like, our parents aren’t trying to get us hitched. Like we don’t have a history.”
She pinches her lips together and then says, “It’s easier that way. The simplest path forward, considering our stations.”
“Easier how? Why? Help me understand.”
“This is my job, now, in the present. Let’s leave the distant past and the recent past there.”
I sigh and gaze at my hands. The hands that held hers while we danced at the Smythe’s. Her fingers fit perfectly in my palm. I’d like to find them there again.
There has to be a reason we’ve been brought back together. I messed up with the sponge, but I have a second chance. I don’t want to blow it. Time to tread lightly and give her time to open up and forgive me.
Hammer has his playbook containing strategies for playing on the field. The guys and I created a playbook of rules to keep us on the team after moon-gate. If we mess up, get bad press for the team, or are caught fooling around with women, we’re all fired. Neither playbook will work for how to navigate this thing with Pippa. It’s as if I hold a blank playbook in my hands and have to figure out a new strategy of play with Pippa Thompson.
“So, what’s next?” I ask simply, letting her take the lead.
“For the next seven days, I’m going to coach you in various forms of etiquette. Then we’ll be taking everything we learned here at Blancbourg into the real world.”
“Is there a test at the end? An exam? Will we have to perform one of Professor Crawford’s historical trials?” I ask, referring to the high school course where the teacher made us act out scenes from history instead of taking tests. “Because if so, I’m ready. I’m going to do it right. I’m going to pass this class and prove to you that I’m not the guy I was in high school.”
Pippa bites her lip. Her perfectly plump, bow-shaped lips. “I’ll be giving three assessments to the headmistress and your coach. Also, there’s the First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball at the end.”
“Does that mean we get to dance again?” I grin.
At last, I get one in return. It’s subtle, with a little tremble in her chin. The corners of Pippa’s mouth rise like the thinnest crescent moon. From behind her glasses, her eyes crinkle ever so slightly.
But I’ll take what I can get and run with it, all the way to the end zone where I’ll score a touchdown, no matter what it takes.
