Page 14 of A Game Plan for Love

I’m assembling the small Lego toy—a bright red sports car—when the bubbles in my chest finally settle.

Oh my god, I zinged!

For about ten seconds, I sit catatonic on the bed before I scramble up, repack the garbage bin with my treasures, and book it down the hall toward Deon’s room.

Flutters as strong as a hurricane gust bang around my chest as I sprint down the hall. Pressure builds behind my eyes with overwhelming joy, and I bang on the hotel door, one hand holding tightly to my gift.

“Deon. Deon. Deon.Deon!”

The door flies open, and he stands in the doorway, shorts barely over his hips, one hand holding his phone close to his chest and the other covering his pelvis. His dark skin is flushed, and he’s breathing heavily like he was just…

Oh.

“Were you—”

“What?”Deon snaps, giving me a death glare for interrupting his private time.

Any other day and his glare might hurt my feelings, but I’m riding a high so strong that not even he could kill it. I just fuckingzinged. This is officially the best day of my life.

“Hi, Nathalie!”

“Hi, Declan!” Nathalie responds cheerfully, though the sound is muffled by Deon’s bare chest.

“Are you dying?” Deon asks, frown deepening.

“No?”

Before I can say another word, Deon slams the door shut, leaving me standing in the hallway with an odd sensation in my chest that I’m pretty confident is my zing, but I need him to confirm.

I bang against the door again.

“Go away!” he screams, “I’m busy.”

He can get busy another time. Right now, I need the Seattle Super Spies. They’ve all zinged, so they know this sensation well.

“I think I zinged,” I admit, and a moment later the door flies back open and Deon stares at me with wide green eyes.

“You zinged?!” Nathalie screams through the phone. “How? Who? Where?”

The grin I offer Deon is so bright, so large, it could be seen from space. I bounce on my toes to expel some of the energy building in my body.

I zinged.

A deep voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. “Youfuckingzinged?”

My head jerks at the uncharacteristic swearing as Jack moves down the hallway, his phone in his hand and a bewildered look on his face.

“Wow, word moves fast,” I mutter.

“I texted Maren and Sawyer,” Nathalie calls out.

“I’ll call you back later,” Deon says, peeling the phone away from his chest. His eyes soften before he hangs up and drags me into his room.

“Declan Roosevelt Monroe!” I cower at the use of my middle name as Henry flies down the hall.

“Roosevelt?” Deon asks, grinning like he struck gold.

“I didn’t choose it,” I grumble. Nor do I know either of the people who chose it for me. It has no meaning or value to me.

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