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“Because I don’t want anyone to hear our plan and steal it.”
“Got it.”
“Hey, Coach said you have to be at every game from now on. Says you’re my lucky charm.”
Ava pulls back to look at my face, then rolls her eyes. She says, her voice still low, “You’re going to need it if you don’t take your hand off my leg.”
It’s not as if I’d forgotten it was there. I was just hoping she wouldn’t notice. Or if she did, maybe she wouldn’t mind. With a confidence only she brings out of me, I squeeze her knee, tell her, “I’m just trying to give you an actual reason.”
“For what?”
“To say I make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, I’ve come to terms with the fact that you’re a creep.”
“Oh yeah?” I laugh.
She nods, brings her head closer again, our faces almost touching.
I ask, “You want creepy?”
“Oh, no,” she backpedals.
If she wants to play, I’m here for it. “Your eyes are possibly the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.” And it’s the truth. Whenever I picture her in my mind, her eyes are the first things I see.
I hear her swallow, loud, and I know she’s feeling something. When she pulls away, her eyes search mine, her cheeks flushed. My heart is racing, my mind spinning. Because never in my life have I wanted a girl more than I want her. And not even in the physical sense. But just talking to her or being around her. To feel this all day, every day. It feels like my soul’s on fire, and she’s holding the match. “Yeah?” she starts, a threatening lilt to her tone. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Finally, she stutters, “Well… well, your smile could melt panties.” The second the words are out of her mouth, her eyes widen, and she covers her face. I think she mumbles, “Too far, Ava. Too fucking far.” But I can’t be sure.
I finally remove my hand from her knee so that I can tug at her wrists and uncover her face. And then I smile my—and I quote—panty-melting smile, just for her.
She shoves my face away with her entire palm. “Stop.”
“Psst!” Rhys hisses from behind us.
We both turn to him.
He says, “Quit eye-fucking each other. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
I rip off a sheet of paper from my notebook and draw a large spoon, then hand it to him, my smile widening. “For your cry-about-it soup.”
SEVENTEEN
connor
“So, how’s school?” Dad asks.
“Good.”
“And the team?”
“Also, good.”
Dad looks up from his meal and drops his knife and fork on the plate. “I feel like we have this same conversation every day.”
“Because we do,” I murmur. “But I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Well, I don’t know, Connor,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “Why don’t we talk about something else then? I feel like… I don’t know. Ever since we moved here, we’ve become so disconnected.”
Shrugging, I take a sip of my soda. “Remember that girl I told you about?”
