My stomach somersaulted with nerves because the reality was that after this year, I wasn’t sure if there was any chance of a relationship. He’d still be here, but I’d be a senior and then I’d leave. We’d do the call on birthdays or a holiday, and that was about it. I had about two seconds before I’d completely lose his attention.
“You’re a good coach,” I said, my face burning and my weight shifting back and forth on my feet like an awkward dance. “It was cool seeing you in action today.”
His face lit up like I told him he hung the moon. He beamed at me, a look I hadn’t seen before. “Thank you, Naomi.”
He stared at me for a few seconds more, indecision on his wrinkled face, but then he put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you next game, right?”
“Yup.”
“Be safe.”
I nodded, and the weight on my chest returned. He turned his attention to Hank, and I was forgotten. I didn’t compliment him with the expectation he’d say something nice back, but he didn’t ask how it went for me or what I thought. If I got the data I needed.
I was background noise in his world of hockey. The ball in the back of my throat grew, and I adjusted the straps on my bag to begin the route back home. The girls and I had a system if we ever had to walk alone, and I sent them my location. I didn’t get more than ten feet before Michael’s voice stopped me.
“Uh, hello? Are we getting pancakes or not? I’m starving, and you never offered to share your snacks once. I saw them in your bag, Fletcher, and honestly, I’m kind of offended.”
I snorted, and butterflies inhabited my stomach. Michael stood there in his hoodie with the sparkling eyes and the easy smile. Teasing me. The weird Fletcher-Simpson twin. “Are we at the food sharing stage of our friendship?”
“I sure fucking hope so. If not, tell me what to do to get there,” he said.
He grinned real wide and jutted his chin toward the sidewalk to campus. “Lead the way to the diner, please, and see if you can manage without falling over.”
“I’m not that—” I said, losing my balance on a lone rock set out to get me. I righted myself as Michael looked smug as hell. Damn it. I laughed, amused at the situation too. “Shut up. Not a word.”
“1-0.”
“What?”
“Your current tripping score is 1-0. This is golf though. You don’t want points.”
“Is everything a competition to you?”
“No, but I do like winning. Let it be a stat competition, who trips less, or a quick game of putt-putt. The high of winning can last a few days.”
Winningwasn’t something I did often, but whenever I solved an advanced formula or a string of code I was stuck on, thatoomphof figuring it out sure hung around. It had to be just like that. “So, are you always a midnight snack eater, or is today special?”
“Since I stopped playing I’ve been giving myself more room to indulge. I still work out and monitor my food intake, but there’s no guilt of a late-night pancake run anymore.” He patted his stomach, and my fingers twitched.
I wanted to touch him so badly to see how strong he was, how tight those muscles were. I made a fist at my side to prevent myself and started walking toward the diner. Movement was good. Michael caught up in a few steps and hummed to himself. This attraction to him was going to be a problem for a plethora of reasons, mainly because he wasn’t my type and I wasn’t his.
Then there was the interning together thing.
Oh, and he was trying to be a hockey coach like my dad.
Okay, so three reasons why my attraction to him was bad. Anif thenstatement formed in my mind.IfI’m attracted to him,thenI needed to find reasons not to be. That would solve my problem.
My biggest turn-off list. My roommates and I got drunk on rum last year and giggled the entire time we came up with the grand list of biggest turn-offs in our partner—no matter how they identified. The top scoring ones were:
Messy eater (at the table, not in bed)
Rude to waitstaff
Talked to hear their own voice
Selfish in bed (must provide Os)
Serial daters (heartbreaker is their middle name)
