Page 30 of Game On
He blinks at me, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. Strikingly handsome, as usual. “Sure thing,” he says, letting the words linger in a low drawl.
He waits for me to get up clumsily from the ground, our cozy blanket falling in a heap at our feet as I do so. I can already feel the chill creeping back as I wrap my arms around myself.
We walk together towards the concession stand. The movie is background noise now, its sound muffled by the crunch of gravel under our feet and the soft hum of conversation around us. It’s comfortable, a lot more than I’d expected it to be, and I’m happy that things are normal between us.
“So, you and Levi? Have you known each other a long time?” I say, breaking our easy silence.
“We met here at Whitland,” he replies.
“Neither of you are … from here, then?”
“From Nashville?” he asks, and I nod my confirmation. “Levi grew up in a small town near the Carolina border, but I’m from Texas.”
“So, why’d you choose Whitland?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“You first.”
He scratches at the back of his neck. “I always wanted to go to a Southern Ivy, and Rice isn’t as focused on Humanities.”
“So, you didn’t choose it because of football?”
“Hell no.” He laughs, a rich, warm sound that makes my stomach flip. “I mean, I love football. But I’m here for a Classics degree first and foremost.”
“That’s …” The word “unexpected” dangles at the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. It’s not fair to assume things about Hudson based on what I think a quarterback should be like. “Impressive.”
“Your turn.”
“Cheer. Coach Morgan, in particular. I spent pretty much all my teenage years watching Whitland’s routines at Daytona. And, well, there was Jamie …”
“Is that your ex? The one who dumped you the day we—”
“Right,” I cut in. “The very same.”
The mention sparks a brief flicker of irritation rather than a deep, inescapable ache. It’s not that it doesn’t hurt—it just feels more like a lingering bruise now, one that’s slowly healing. Maybe the sting of rejection is starting to fade, or maybe I’m learning to let go.
Either way, it doesn’t consume me like it did at the start.
He casually runs his fingers through his hair, tipping his chin in acknowledgment. “I see. He’s an Oxford man.”
“Mm-hmm, but he’s actually here now.”
“What do you mean? Here in Nashville?”
“He’s studying abroad at Whitland, too. All year. And we haven’t spoken since the morning I got on the plane to come over here. I have no clue what he’s been doing so far this summer, and I honestly don’t care to find out.”
There’s a sharp look in his eyes. “Then why did you mention him?”
“I was just answering your question.” I shrug, trying to play it off.
He studies me for a long moment, thumb tracing along his bottom lip. “Was Jamie the only other guy you’ve been with?”
I purse my lips, my stomach bottoming out. “That is … frankly none of your business.”
Now that he’s asked the question, I’m immediately concerned.Did it seem like I was inexperienced? Was I too eager, too boring, too naive?He’s opened a floodgate of insecurities I thought I’d dammed up. That night was impulsive, a break from the calculated decisions I’d made thanks to years of rigid planning.
It wasn’t just a divergence from my relationship with Jamie; it was a divergence from my entire self-concept. And despite me lying through my teeth with that four-star rating, I thought it was actually quite good. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had, in fact. So, the idea he could sense my inexperience is grating.
