“Liese. You meant it.”
“At the time, maybe.” She shifts in her seat.
I like seeing her squirm. But, I also want to know how she really feels. “I’ve never been accused of being classy, but do youreallythink I’m overpaid?” My ego wasn’t bruised when she said it in the airport—I’ve heard so much worse so many times, it’s white noise. But the idea that she still may think that hurts. Don’t get me wrong: if there’s a flaw in my game I don’t know about, Iwantto know, even if it hurts. But if the girl I like thinks I’m mediocre at the game we both love …
“Overpaid isn’t the right word,” she says, her neck almost matching her red blouse.
“But not as good as Hideo Suzuki.”
She puffs her cheeks full of air and blows. She’s breathing a bit too hard. But then, so am I. “Um, you’re a little better than Suzuki.”
“A little? How little?” Her blush is all the way to her ears. “How do I show up on your all-seeing analytics program?”
“It’s not all-seeing.”
“Did you know I was gonna get injured? Is that why you were so mad?”
“No. I mean, yes, by the end of the regular season, we predicted with a high confidence level that you’d get injured, but that’s not the reason I was upset we traded for you.”
“Wait, you were upset the team traded for me in the first place? Liesel Fischer! What is so wrong with me? Is this because you’re a traditionalist? Because I’m so brash?” Lee pulls the hood of her coat up, like she’s trying to cover her face. “Sugar Plum?”
“ItsbecauseIhadacrushonyou.”
“One more time, in English.”
“It’s because I had a crush on you!”
“WHAT?”
I say this so loud, people in neighboring cars can probably hear us. Liesel is fully covering her face with her hood now, curling in a ball in her seat.
I tug her hood down, getting my face right next to hers, my lips puffing against her ear in a way that zings against my lip. “Spill. Now.”
She looks one glare away from an explosion. “I don’t have a crush anymore, obviously.”
I grin. “Obviously.”
“It’s when I was a teenager, okay? You were on the cover of every sports magazine, and I … may have had a poster of you.”
“But I was in high school. I didn’t have any posters until I was drafted.”
She is redder than Santa’s sleigh. “So, it was kind of homemade.”
I gape in utter delight. “You made a poster of me?!”
“My brothers did! I, uh, took one of the magazines you were on and I sort of had it in my room?—”
“Oh my gosh, did you kiss it? Did you kiss the cover with my face on it?”
“NO! I was fifteen, not twelve. I wasn’t kissing the cover.”
“You just put the magazine right beside your bed and said goodnight to my face every night, didn’t you? It’s okay. You can admit it.”
If looks could kill, I would be deader than last year’s Christmas tree. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You telling me is truly the greatest Christmas gift I’ve ever received.”
“I think I’m back to hating you.”
