Page 15

I almost snort. “No, but I might’ve figured it out.”
Cade leans over, trying to read my notes. “Did Coach say anything about me out there?”
I crush them against my chest. “You’re not on the defense.”
“Oh, so you do know some things?”
“Maybe when you ran me over on the sidelines, part of your brain transferred to mine.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Terrifying,” I deadpan.
“I had your back, by the way. Coach asked where you were. I brought up?—”
“—the Gatorade jug?” I nod to it, and we stop in front. “Thanks.”
“I don’t think he believed me until he noticed the jug up here.”
“I…appreciate that,” I say, peering at my shoes. For some reason, the sudden urge to tell him everything rears up, but I squash it down. People like football players don’t care about other people’s baggage. He’s either being nice to me to get into my pants or he’s…psychotic. I haven’t figured it out yet. “I got caught up.”
“Are you always late or?—”
“I’m notalwayslate,” I snap, then cringe. Not only was that too harsh, but it was also a lie. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Some things are out of my control. I was going to be here on time, and then…I wasn’t. Family commitments.”
“Oh, well, that’s understandable. I miss my family, too.” He looks away, but it doesn’t last long. “Do you have any siblings?”
I blink at him. This is starting to feel like an actual conversation. Time to bail. “Listen, I’m grateful you helped me out with Coach. Really, I am. But I’m not looking for a friend and definitely not anything more.”
“I was only being nice. Maybe have a little back and forth with the cute assistant.”
I swallow the sour taste in my mouth. “I’m not looking for fake niceties.”
“You don’t want people to be pleasant to you?”
His teasing grin grates on my nerves. “No, because that’s not the real world. The real world is loss and heartbreak and living with the consequences of other people’s actions. It’s turmoil and the slow, agonizing death of everything you’re supposed to love until you can’t remember why you’re supposed to love it.”
The longer I talk, the more my tirade deflates his bubble. The smile melts off his face like burning plastic.
Good.
“I know a thing or two about that.”
“About what?”
“Heartbreak.”
“Please,” I scoff. I mean to say it in my head, but I don’t. The word is just out there, and I bring my free hand to my lips, wondering once again what’s gotten into me. I don’t usually have an attitude problem. Maybe I am slowly losing it?
“My best friend,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. It takes me a minute to realize what he’s responding to, and then I remember he stated he knows a thing or two about heartbreak. “A few years ago. During a football game, actually.” He scratches the crown of his head. “So, I get pain and turmoil and whatever else you said.”
“Well, I’ll raise you a dead mother.” I smile like I’ve always wanted to one-up everyone in the losing-loved-ones department.
I wait for him to say he’s sorry for my loss or something similar. Something I can roll my eyes at because I’ve heard it a thousand other times.
He doesn’t.
“I get why I’m attracted to you now.”