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“You could say that.”
“Are you going to be late for warm-up or whatever you do on game days?” I might as well just be out with my ignorance. If we’re going to be stuck here, there’s no reason we can’t be open and honest. Although, something tells me this openness will be totally one-sided.
“I’ll be fine. I just hope they don’t take too long. You going to be in trouble if you don’t find Miranda on time?”
I shrug. “Not much I can do about it if I am.”
His crystal blue eyes finally rise from his phone and meet mine, expressionless. “So if it’s not about a job, and you aren’t here as a fan, what are you doing here?”
Wow. This guy’s a real charmer.
I look down at my freshly painted light pink fingernails because that’s the question of the hour. What in the world am I doing here? Every part of me wants to be released from this box on a string and hightail it back where I belong. To the safety of my home, surrounded by the things that are comforting and familiar, and to the one person who still dwells there but doesn’t exist anymore.
A lump rises in my throat, and I quickly swallow it down. The last thing I need is a full-on breakdown that’s been threatening for the last few days. My best friend, Nora, keeps telling me I have to do this. She all but belted me in my car and tied the accelerator down. She says it’s not goodbye, just a place to start. A fork in the road where I have a choice to remain living in the past or see what might lie on the other side.
When I don’t answer right away, I feel the burn of his gaze.
“Actually, I’m here to sing theNational Anthem.” I try to sound confident, though I feel anything but.
A noise comes from his throat. “Really?”
Did he just scoff that reply?
His eyes run over me like he’s trying to figure out if he should know who I am, and I don’t miss his unimpressed conclusion.
I hold back my ass-eating grin. My ripped jeans and wide-neck graphic t-shirt definitely don’t scream superstar, but he could be a little less obvious.Jerk.
“Yeah, really.”
“Are you an artist?” His brows tip inward like he doesn’t understand as he tugs at the neck of his hoodie.
“I guess that’s debatable. My…someone entered me into a contest. I didn’t even know about it until I got an email.”
“Huh.” He flips his phone over and over in his hands. Flip. Rest. Flip. Rest. Flip. Rest.
It’s not that I expected someone of his esteemed caliber to know about the contest, but does he have to be so skeptical? I freaking won.
“So…can you even sing?” His words come out slow and hoarse.
I want to reach out and smack him. Is he socially inept or just a dick?
“I guess we’ll find out now, won’t we?”
Flip. Rest. Flip. He’s focusing on his phone like it’s his most prized possession. “So you don’t normally sing…for crowds?”
I smile at his condescending tone. “No. I don’t. Although, karaoke on Tuesdays at the bowling alley is usually a packed house.”
Flip. Stop. So, so slowly, his eyes pull away from his phone and drag up to study my face, maybe trying to interpret if I’m serious. But then, apparently, I’m not interesting enough for any follow-up questions.
Feeling my snarky side switch to on, I toss a softball back at him. “So, how long have you played for the Tigers, or do you just warm the bench?”
“A couple of seasons,” he says, dryly ignoring my sarcasm.
Well, Chatty Cathy is going to have to do better than that. “How’s the South treating you? I can see the southern charm hastaken full effect.” I wait to see what kind of reaction I get from Mr. Social.
“Fine. The weather is nice.” His phone rests on his leg, and he pushes his arm out to stretch like we’ve been sitting here for hours.
Because I can’t help myself, I add, “You really should tone down the excitement. We don’t want you running out of steam before the big game.”
