“Exactly,” Lucca says—he’s back, and not where Coach wants him.
I shake my head. “That’s messed up, guys.”
“That’s just the situation you’re in,” Zev says. “Now if you were to just date the woman yourself, it wouldn’t sound quite so insane.”
“Date Fran?” I laugh, pick up the ball, and throw it at Zev before lunging forward and stretching out my hamstrings. “That’s crazy. It’s… Fran.”
“Is this about Simone?” Zev says, officially giving up his job as my best friend.
“It’s not about Simone.” I fix Zev with a cold, unblinking stare. “It’s about the fact that Fran and I are friends—new friends. We don’t even know one another that well. And she’s… quirky. She’s got all these ideas that are—well, they aren’t my type. She’s?—”
“Nice?” says Zev.
I grunt. “She is nice. But that doesn’t mean?—”
“Cute too,” Maverick says.
I think about Fran’s red lips. If I’m being honest, they’ve kept me up at night. But I need to focus on my game. And I meant what I said. Me and love—it’s not the time, and it may never be.
I swallow and give Zev a look that could cut. “We’refriends. I don’t want to date her any more than I want to date you.”
“Are you saying you want to kiss me, Cal? Because if so, we’ve got a problem.” Zev stretches beside me, and Maverick laughs.
“That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”
“Fine.” Zev holds up both hands. I’d love to hand him a white flag to raise. As if that would shut him up. “I’m just saying, you kissing your friend is more bizarre than you kissing your date. I thought you were shooting for less awkward in your life.”
I change tactics—instead of a death glare, I stare ahead. No looking in Zev’s direction at all. “You’re so helpful.”
“I try,” Zev says. He’s grinning. I can see it from the corner of my eye. If he’s going to pressure me, I can pressure right back. I know he went out last week with some nameless girl.
“If you wanted to help, you’d come with me this Sunday. You can bring what’s-her-name.” Let’s see how Zev likes sharing.
“Are you seeing someone, Hayes?” Maverick asks.
But Zev ignores our friend. “What’s-her-name?” he deadpans.
“Sure. You’re so full of advice. You want to help me? Help by making it a triple.” I wouldn’t mind a comfortable piece during this sham of a date—if I have to spend the day withPaul, I’d like to have some backup.
Twenty
Rosalie sits nextto me in my old Honda Civic. She said Paul could take the back, and while that sounded a little rude, I’m sure Paul would want to be chivalrous. He seems like the damsel-saving, chivalrous type.
Paul doesn’t seem to mind when he slides into the back seat. “How far is Lake Tesoro again?”
“You’ve never been?” Rosalie says, peering back at him.
“Never. I’ve only been in Reno a year.”
“It’s a little less than an hour away.” I glance back at him in the rearview mirror.
“And we’re meeting up with the soccer player?” he asks, a pleased grin on his face.
“We are.”
“Nice. Okay, I’ve got a story for you, and it’s going to take a while.”
Paul does not exaggerate. We’re pulling into a local tackle shop—the shop Cal sent me directions to—when Paul is just wrapping up his story.
