He raises his arms like he’s got the moves.
“Just watch out for that overbite when you dance,” I say, giving him shit since his teeth are pressed into his lips.
“Winning makes you feisty.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I murmur as I steal a glance at Violet across the table. She’s chatting with my mom now.
Ford yanks me close. “Gotta say, it’s so damn entertaining that she doesn’t like you. She’s pulling it off like a most excellent actress, with the pink polka-dot shit.”
“Yeah, she is,” I mutter, and then let his comment sink in.
Is he right? Have I misread Violet since the kiss at the fountain in Sausalito when I felt the vibe between us shift? From the texts to the phone calls to the last kiss, I sure thought we were moving toward something more. Am I wrong? She agreed to hang out later, but maybe she only wanted to hang out here.
My chest tightens, and unease seeps into my bones during the rest of the meal. As we finish dessert, I replay the conversations I’ve had with her lately, trying to find the true meaning. Friends or maybe something more? More, or just friends like we’ve always been?
When the meal mercifully ends, Ford continues playing cruise director of my personal life when he says, “Hey, Vi, since I drove our boy to the restaurant, why don’t you take him home?”
I know what he’s up to. Violet valeted her car, and Ford figures someone will snap a pic or post a tweet about us waiting for the car together at the new eatery.
But he’s also given me an excuse to leave with her without her brother thinking I’m up to something. I’m not technically up to something. I simply don’t want the night with her to end, and I’ll find out soon if she feels the same way, or if Ford is right.
Ford heads out first, grabs my bag from his car, and hands it to me. As I take the bag, I wince, my shoulder tight from the game.
The valet does a double take when Violet asks for her car. I tip my chin. “Hey, man.” The guy beams and races to find her vehicle.
I grab a twenty from my wallet and tip him well when he returns. Then I settle into the passenger seat as Violet drives. When she turns on Fillmore, I roll my shoulder back, trying to loosen the muscles.
“You okay?”
“Just sore.”
When we reach my home, she doesn’t pull to the curb and say have a good night. She pulls into the slim driveway, and I grin as I reach into my bag to grab the garage opener. I hit the button. Anticipation threads through me as the door rises. She pulls into the garage, and I want to punch the air because the night isn’t ending.
“You didn’t want to park at my house the other night,” I say.
She swallows. “It was easier not to then.”
“Is it easier to park here now?”
“I’m not sure if it’s easier, or simply what I’m doing.”
And I’ll take that as a good sign. I’ll take that as the sign that Ford was wrong tonight.
I tell myself to just let the night unfold. We go inside, and I drop my bag in the hallway, heading straight for the freezer in my kitchen. I grab an ice pack and wrap it around my shoulder.
“Does it hurt a lot?” she asks.
“Standard war wound.”
She gives me a look. “Seriously. Are you injured? Are you being the big tough guy who doesn’t let on that he’s hurt then plays through the pain?”
I scoff. “No. I’m not injured. This is just normal soreness. This is how I usually feel after a game.”
“Gee, I wonder why. Could it be throwing thirty-yard passes with regularity while linemen try to mow you down wears on the body?”
I smile. “But it’s nothing a beer and an ice pack won’t cure. Do you want a white wine?”
She says yes, so I grab a bottle I think she’ll like, then a glass. As I unscrew the cork our eyes meet. Hers glitter with something—anticipation, maybe? I don’t know what’s happening, but I also know exactly what’s happening.
Something.
That’s what my gut tells me. That’s what my instincts say. And those are the tools I rely on when I’m in the zone. I let them guide me now.
Something’s been crackling between us for the last week, ever since she won me. Since I visited her salon, invited her to the game, and texted. Since she sent that photo.
As she leans her hip against my island kitchen counter, looking like she belongs here, wearing her number sixteen jersey with a smudge of dirt streaked across it from when I hugged her after the game, my mind narrows in on one thing—her body.
How she reacts to the way I stare at her. How her lips part. How her cheeks grow pinker.
“You’re almost in the playoffs,” she says, her voice wobbling more than usual, as if she’s a bit nervous.