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I turn my glare to Colin, my lips rolling in on themselves.
“Oh,” Samson says, finally understanding the conversation, tipping his head to the side. “Yeah, they are kind of gross now that I think about it. You wear those, Pickle?”
Where's my fucking avalanche?
“She does if I don't hide them first,” Colin answers. “I-I read that they’re unhealthy. Unhealthy. They smear feces into the vag—”
“Alright! Alright!” I interrupt him, yelling out. “Enough with the hatred of thongs!”
Lake's face is lighting up with humor, watching this play out.
He taps the back of my hands that I didn't realize were still on his chest before grabbing my wrists and pulling them down. I suddenly panic, realizing he probably didn’t want me touching him. But he surprises me by sliding his fingers into one of my hands, weaving them through mine until he's holding it, as he turns me to face the guys.
I'm totally caught off-guard by the move. My ice is melting.
He reaches his hand out to Colin. “Hey man, I'm La—”
“Lake Decker!” Samson yells out next to him, holding onto Colin's shoulders behind him. “We know! Number 21!”
“Lake Decker, born December 3rd, 1993, in Fort Wayne, Indiana. College; Notre Dame. First-round draft pick. Height; 6'4''. 40-yard dash time, 4.29 seconds. Best rookie running back in the league until tearing his ACL, sending him to the bench,” Colin recites unapologetically, like a damn Wikipedia page.
I had no idea he knew so much about him. I know Colin likes football. We watch every game. He's just never vocalized his appreciation for the sport like he does racing.
Lake's mouth drops open as he looks at Colin, then back at me. He chuckles. “Yeah, that's me.”
Colin stares at his extended hand, but clutches the bottom of his Hawaiian-style shirt instead. He's not a handshake guy. As I'm about to grab Lake's hand to not make this any more awkward, he points at Colin's shirt instead.
“I like that shirt, Colin.” His lips pull to a half-grin. “Might need to tell me where you got it so I can get one, too.”
My heart is pitter-patting like a busted-ass snowblower attempting to escape the hills.
“Here,” Colin says, unbuttoning the shirt. “Do you want it? Pickle says we need to be careful with our clothes because we can't afford many more, but Lake Decker wants it. Lake likes my shirt.”
I try to let go of Lake's hand to stop him as Colin exposes his skinny chest, but he holds on tighter.
“Nah, man. It looks great on you.” He smiles. “You have to keep it. I'll find a similar one and we can wear them together.”
Colin shrugs, buttoning it back up again, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Are you guys hungry?” he asks us all. “I was about to order food and just so happen to know they have chili-cheese fries here.” His eyes fall to mine with a cute, knowing grin stretching across his lips. “My treat,” he whispers to me, his face apologetic for assisting in the spilling of the snacks.
I bite down on the corner of my lip, holding in the emotions that want to explode from my raging heart. I'd normally fight this, hating handouts, but I have zero cash on me after already buying food, and I know these boys are hungry.
“Thank you, Lake,” I whisper back, looking up at him with an appreciative grin.
We share a moment of silent communication as he gently squeezes my hand. Everything in a simple glance. One from me that says thank you for being so kind, all things considered, while his somehow says, I admire you even more than I thought possible.
“Is that okay, Pickle?” Colin asks.
I see Lake mouth Pickle to himself after hearing it for the third time now, before his eyes twinkle with understanding.
“Can we get a pretzel with cheese?”
So much is happening so fast. I can't think. Lake's still holding my hand, which means my ability to exist beyond that is practically impossible.
“Um…”
“Of course,” Lake answers. “I'll grab a whole assortment. How about you guys grab a seat at the tables over there and I'll bring it right over.”
