Page 67 of The Play Maker

My mind keeps slipping away, no matter how hard I try to concentrate. I should be outlining my psychology paper. Or reviewing Austin’s latest stat sheet for our next session. Or honestly, just sleeping. But none of it sticks in my brain right now. Not when I’m waiting for a text that probably won’t show up.

My thumb hovers over the screen and I tap again. Still nothing. I let out a breath and drop the phone on my chest, staring up at the ceiling.

My legs burn from practicing the double lutz over and over. I only have three weeks until regionals, which means the extra practice is necessary—which is why I have been going to the rink late at night every night.

Austin hasn’t been back since that one time. Not that I expect him to—I don’t—I just… I can’t stop thinking about it.

And I hate that.

Because every time I think about him—and that night—I remember that this ridiculous crush I have on him is just that. Ridiculous. I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those girls that fluttered my lashes and beamed at him, but the guy makes it impossible not to notice him.

And now, my heart thuds in my chest every time I think about him, or have to tutor him, or see him in class or in the rink. And I only have myself to blame.

My phone buzzes beside me and I roll onto my side, swiping open the text.

Six:

Hey. You still up?

I smile, the corner of my mouth twitching as I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

Me:

Am I ever not?

Six:

I’m glad you are. You’re kind of my safe place.

My heart does this slow roll in my chest.

Me:

Yeah?

The typing bubbles flicker, disappear, come back. I tuck my feet under the blanket, the cold crawling up my skin.

Six:

You know you are, Cherry.

I imagine what it would be like to see my name instead of the stupid nickname I gave him on the screen. If it would make my chest flutter this much, or even more?

I roll onto my back, typing out a reply.

Me:

It’s kind of weird you didn’t start with a confession.

His reply comes back a few seconds later.

Six:

Alright.

Six:

Confession: I hate being alone.