Page 3 of Facing the Line

“London,” she replies quickly, her eyes glowing.

“Where else?”

She shrugs. “Everywhere. But London is first.”

“Why?” I ask, leaning forward.

“Something about the modern mixed with history. It’s so cool. And British accents are hot.” She smiles, utterly gorgeous. Her confidence is sexy. “But I take it you like camping?”

“Love it.”

“Ohmygosh, were you a Boy Scout?”

“Affirmative.”

She tosses her smooth blonde hair out of her face and squints, then stands and moves to sit beside me on the small couch. We’re close enough I can smell her perfume, something light and sweet, like cotton candy. “I couldn’t see you through the glare from the fire. Now tell me all about being a Boy Scout.”

“There’s not much to tell.” My cheeks warm, but if I’m lucky she’ll think that’s due to the fire pit’s heat.

“I bet you were an Eagle Scout.”

“Maybe.”

“What did you like about it?”

I raise my brows. I expected her to make fun of me, but instead she asked an insightful question.

“I liked doing something for my community. It felt meaningful.”

At that, her features soften. “That’s really sweet. What about?—”

“No, it’s my turn to ask you something. Do you play sports?” She has an athletic build, lean lines under her tight t-shirt and jeans.

She looks like she took a bite of a lemon. “Not anymore. I hate athletes.”

Ouch. I don’t know why there’s so much venom behind her words. “But you used to?”

“I ran Track and Cross Country in high school.”

“What happened? Why do you hate athletes?”

“Because jocks are the worst, okay? So full of themselves, they can’t think of anyone else.”

I started playing hockey when I was five. Community leagues and such. So yeah, I’ve met my fair share of guys who fit that bill. Nodding, I reach out and pat her hand, resting on top of her knee.

“It can suck, for sure. Do you still run?”

A dreamy smile graces her lips for a second. “I love running.”

“Me, too.” Our gazes lock, and she turns her palm up, lacing her fingers through mine. What I meant as a comforting gesture turned intimate. And I don’t mind at all.

I’m not a player. I mean, I play hockey, obviously. But I’m not into random hookups, like some of my teammates. No shade on them, but it’s not my thing. I blame my parents.

They are ridiculously in love. It’s gross. My sisters and I used to catch them making out all the time. My dad would insist he was just helping my mom find an earring she lost in her bra. Blech. Instead of turning me off on monogamy andcommitment, though, I want what they have. I want that kind of deep, forever love.

So I don’t usually find myself chatting up girls I don’t know, holding their hands and staring deep into their eyes. She scoots closer, warm beside me.

“When you’re not running or camping, what do you like to do with your spare time?”

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