Page 47 of The Play Maker

No matter what I eat, I can feel their eyes on me. Like every bite is being judged. Too much, too little, too fast, too greedy. If it’s healthy, I’m pretending. If it’s not, well… no wonder I look like this. There’s no winning.

So I stopped eating around people altogether, because every bite feels like it’s under a microscope, like everyone’s just waiting for me to mess up.

Aside from the sad little yogurt cup I had this morning, I haven’t had a chance to eat anything. But the thought of eating in front of him, of shoving fries into my mouth while he sits across from me looking like a damn Calvin Klein ad… nope. No thanks.

Of course, that’s the exact moment my stomach betrays me with an embarrassing growl.

Austin raises a brow and turns back to the waitress. “Add an order of mozzarella sticks, too.”

The waitress nods, and leaves.

My head snaps up. “Austin, you didn’t?—”

“They’re for me,” he says, cutting me off before I can finish. “I’m starving. You’re not gonna judge me, are you?”

I breathe out a laugh. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Just… impressed.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his messy hair. “Appetite of a hockey player,” he says with a shrug. “I work out a lot, so it kinda cancels out. Clears my head also. Though, I haven’t exactly been going to the gym since the whole suspension thing.”

I shake my head, my eyes falling down the length of his torso. “Well, you can’t tell.”

I blink.Shit.

His grin spreads, slow and smug, and he lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “MaisieFrecklesWilson… have you been checking me out?”

“Not my name,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. “And no, I wasn’t checking anything out. Just making an observation.”

“That I’m attractive,” he says, the teasing obvious in his voice and in the way his eyes are actuallysparkling. Who the hell has sparkling eyes in a dim diner?

“Hate to break it to you,” I deadpan, “but I don’t think that.”Oh look, I’m lying again.

He laughs again, leans back in his chair with ease. “No?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms and dragging my gaze away from his annoyingly perfect face. “I mean, yeah, objectively, sure. You’re attractive. Every single girl on this planet seems to crawl at your feet. But you’re not my type.”

His brow lifts as he reaches for his milkshake. He takes a slow sip, tilting his head, eyes still locked on mine. “And whatisyour type?” he asks.

My mouth opens, then closes.

Because I don’t have an answer. Not a real one. I don’t think I have a type. Not physically, anyway. I just want someone who’s kind. Someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to shrink myself to be worthy of attention. But if Ididhave a type? It would probably look a hell of a lot like Austin. Messy light brown hair, hazel eyes that somehow always look lit from the inside. Broad shoulders. That stupid smile that makes it hard to breathe if I stare too long.

But I am not telling him that.

Because as much as he drives me crazy—and he does, constantly—he’s also been… kind. He doesn’t make me feel like an obligation. He doesn’t act weird about being seen with me, or talk over me, or look through me like some of the other guys I tutor.

But if I admit I might have thetiniestcrush on him?

Everything would shift.

He’d stop looking at me the way he does. Stop flirting and teasing and calling meFreckles. He’d say that I’m a nice girl, but he doesn’t want to lead me on. That I’m not his type.

And that would be worse than lying.

He leans forward, his arms braced on the table. “So… no type?”

“Not really,” I say, with a shrug. “I like people who are… decent. Who aren’t full of themselves.”

He gasps, hand over his chest. “Are you calling me full of myself?”