Page 15 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

“You’re making a mess.” I glare at the offending pieces, and his skin flushes.

I tug the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt. Normally I wear Blizzards stuff, but I didn’t feel like putting on the name of the team that benched me. I don’t need to feel worse every time I look in the mirror. They don’t even want me to train with them, as if they think my comments might destroy team morale or something.

As if anything could make Finn and Noah, Evan and Vinnie not be ridiculously, disgustingly in love.

Cal is taller than I am and definitely broader. His hair is longer than it was last time I saw him, and it probably wouldn’t prickle my hands if we were to kiss or something.

Not that we would kiss.

Naturally not.

I fold my arms in case I get confused.

I’m just thinking about the kiss because the last time I saw him we did kiss. It’s a sign of my excellent memory. Nothing else.

My eyes bounce around his face, because maybe it’s safer than his hair. His cheeks are round and cherubic. Not because he’s an angel or anything. Cherubic in the over-developed cheek sense.

“Would it be possible to answer some questions?” he asks, his voice polite. “I’m writing an article about you.”

I stiffen. Of course, that’s why he’s here. Ex-friends don’t show up on people’s doorsteps. He probably doesn’t even remember we were friends. He probably had dozens of better friends in Tennessee and would have scoffed that I thought whatever we had meant something.

After all, he....

I shake my head. I’m not going there. No way. Absolutely not.

I narrow my eyes. “You want an interview, Cal?”

His eyebrows lurch up, and I can’t believe I actually called him by his first name. By his nickname. By the name I used to...

Nope. Not going there. No way. No way at all.

High school boys are notoriously horny. Naturally, if there weren’t girls around, I would think about boys. I mean, that’s what happens in prisons. Simple logic.

But embarrassment prickles through me, like it does whenever I think about him. I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want the next time I’m entering my apartment to think about that time he stood here on the landing.

I hate the way my body remembers him, pulse speeding up, lips parting, as if all it wants is to be kissed by him again.

His skin is pink, and he removes his hat, then unknots his scarf. His hair is mussy.

“Stop stripping,” I say.

He freezes mid-motion.

Perfect.

Did that sound sexual? Does he think I think about guys stripping?

No.

He wouldn’t think that. I’m known for my homophobia. In fact, he wrote the article.

So, everything is fine.

He’ll know I just meant that guys shouldn’t strip because I’m not into guys stripping.

“Go away, Cal.” My words are gruff and not high pitched. I sound like the tough hockey player I totally am. Not like someone who got pranked back in high school.

“Don’t you want your side of things to get published?” Cal asks, his voice softer, almost tempting.