Look at you, knowing the comings and goings of one very attractive, very available professional football player
A flush creeps up my neck.
Lucy
It’s not like that. He’s story inspo. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I tap out of the message string with my friends and over to my text conversation with TJ. If you can even call it a conversation. I read it back, as I’ve done no fewer than twenty times this week.
TJ
Hi Lucy, this is TJ. Thanks for coming tonight.
Lucy
Hey, thanks for having me.
TJ
My grandparents’ place is at Bayview Senior Living. 333 Bayview Lane, Green Bay.
Lucy
I frown at my screen. That’s it. That’s the end of it. He didn’t respond. Which is something I should absolutely not be overthinking. But I absolutely, positivelyamoverthinking.
Did he text me to tell me his grandparents’ address and then, when said task was completed, he figured he’d done his duty and was done with me? Did he get distracted by another message from someone else who was way more entertaining and wittier and funnier?
It was his turn to respond, right? And he didn’t.
End of text conversation. End of story.
“Hey, there.” The sound of TJ’s low voice behind me has me jumping in my seat. I fumble with my phone, and it drops to the ground.
I quickly bend over and snatch it up, checking the screen for a crack.
“Sorry to startle you,” TJ says with an easy smile, but there’s a glimmer of hesitation in his gaze, an uncertainty that hasn’t been there when we’ve interacted before.
“You’re fine. I’m always clumsy. Not your fault.” I set my phone face down on the table. “You’re here,” I say, and heat licks at my cheeks.Duh.
TJ looks effortlessly handsome, and it’s unfair, really. He’s in gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt, but it’s all working for him. He must’ve gotten a haircut since Sunday, because there’s a design shaved into the close-cut hair behind his ear.
“It’s a lightning bolt.”
I blink and meet his eye. He rubs the patch of hair.
“It’s new.” I’m knocking it out of the park over here with my observational and conversational skills. No one would ever guess that words are literally my job.
“Thanks for noticing.”
I blink back at him, because I’m incapable of coming up with anything to say in response.
“It’s a tradition this time of year for me and the other backfield guys,” he goes on. “We all get designs like this in December.”
“Oh. That’s cool.” I don’t know what a backfield guy is, but I’ll figure that out later.
He arches his brows and raises his hand, rubbing it over the design again. His lips droop on either end, and he shifts his gaze away from me. “Do you hate it or what?”
