“I’m expecting chit-chat and possibly something to eat or drink.” Those brown eyes are dancing. “Why, what do you expect from a date?”
I have no idea why I started this line of questioning.
Because right now all I can think about is what happens at the end of a date that goes well. I look at her mouth and think about it longer than I should. Kissing that pink lip gloss off those plush lips. Whether she’d go up on her toes to reach me. How far I’d have to duck down to reach her.
I think about what happens at the end of a date that goesreallywell. The invitation to come inside. A kiss that doesn’t end. I’d get my hands on her waist again the way I did at the fence, except this time I wouldn’t have to let go. I’d slide my palms up her ribcage, cup her?—
Down, boy.
Time to shut that line of thought down all the way.
“Nothing,” I say. “Forget it.”
There’s a warm glimmer in those whiskey-brown depths, like she can tell what’s running through my mind. And still, she startles me when she says, “You could place a remote bid.”
“Bid on a date with you?”
“Doesn’t have to be with me. I have some gorgeous eligible fellow volunteers who would be thrilled to have you as the winning bidder. And it’s all for charity.”
I shake my head. The only woman I’d be interested in going out with is her, and it feels weird to pay for the privilege. Besides…
“I don’t enjoy first dates,” I admit to her.
“How come?”
“First dates are just two people pretending,” I say. “Pretending they’re some idealized version of themselves.Pretending they’re not being evaluated. I’m not interested in pretending.”
“Maybe you’ve just never been on a really enjoyable first date before,” she muses.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
For some reason, that makes her laugh again. And I don’t care if she laughing at me or with me, I just like to make her laugh.
Before I can open my mouth to say another dumb thing that might entertain her for some reason, a kid about nine or ten years old approaches me. I recognize the look in his eyes instantly, just like I recognize the jersey he’s got on beneath his cowboy hat.
Seattle Storm, number thirteen. Last name Rhodes.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, sir?” he asks me, equal parts nerves and hope. “Will you sign my jersey?” He’s already holding a Sharpie out to me.
“You got it,” I tell him. “Spin around.”
He does, then gives a little wave to his mom, who’s sitting across the waiting room practically bouncing on her toes with excitement.
I sign my name in the white part fabric of the number, like I’ve done a million times before. The number changes. The team changes. Only my scrawled signature remains the same.
“Thank you!” he exclaims. “You’re my favorite player ever. Doesn’t matter what team you’re on. You’re the best.”
“Thanks, man.” I give him a fist bump. “See you around.”
He scampers back to his mother, whooohsandahhsover his newly signed jersey.
I feel eyes on me. I turn back to Lila, who’s looking at me curiously.
“Are you famous or something?” she asks.
I shrug, trying not to wince at the sharp pain in my shoulder. “I play hockey. Some people know me from that.”
Her eyes flicker to the little boy and back to me. “You were very sweet with him.”
