Page 67 of Stick With Me
I mean, I ask her to hang out with me every free minute I have. How is a date any different? Do I just have to preface the invite with “on a date”?
Not that it matters after our talk this morning—there will be no asking her out until I’m sure her answer will be yes. Even though I’ve given up on my list of do’s and don’ts, I still don’t want to push for too much too quickly.
Fox rubs his chin in thought. “Hmm, well, I think a date requires you to explicitly ask her on one. Actually plan something special. And it has to be romantic. Like candlelit dinners and shit. Wine. I don’t drink, but even I know wine is the drink of romance. Oh, and cook for her. Chicks love when you cook for them.”
Cooking is out of the question. There’s no way I’ll impress her with my skills in the kitchen. And wine equals romance? I shake my head.
“Any ideas that don’t include cooking?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I immediately regret asking for Fox’s input. I can’t recall him ever taking a girl on a date, unless you count the kind that ends with them in his bed.
“Well, on our show?—”
“Ourshow? Who’s ‘our’?”
“You, me, and Hannah.You’re The One. Anyway, think about the dates they go on: dancing lessons, obstacle courses, exploring different countries… Oh, group dates. They do tons of those. Really adds to the drama.”
“Your suggestion is that I bring Hannah on a group date with other women?” I raise my brows, questioning yet again why I thought asking for his input was a good idea.
He scratches the back of his neck. “No, that’s probably not a great plan, I’ll admit.”
At least he’s not totally hopeless. “All right, well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” Mostly that I shouldn’t ask Fox for dating advice unless I’m really desperate.
“Glad I could help,” he says sincerely. I can’t bring myself to burst his bubble with the truth of how terrible he is at this. “So, any news from your agent? What’s happening with your contract extension?”
Fuck. I’ve been avoiding even thinking about this. I was hoping to know by the trade deadline, but technically, I’m not a free agent until the season ends. It could be June before I know where I’ll be playing next season.
If the Saints don’t extend an offer, I’ll have to go wherever the opportunity arises. The thought makes a nervous pit form in my stomach.
“Still nothing. They’re taking their sweet-ass time.”
“I wouldn’t sweat it. You know how much background work goes into these deals, and there’s still time. I’m guessing you want to stay here, right?”
“Where else would I want to go?”
The thought of having to leave Chicago and, by extension, Hannah makes the pit feel like a lead ball. She just got settled here. Asking her to upend her life again? It’s the exact situation she’s trying to avoid.
Yet another reason I’m desperate for this deal to come through: If she knows I’m staying, maybe she’ll feel more secure in us, in what we’re building here.
“I know. That’s the nature of the beast. Playing in the league means we don’t have much say in where we end up. But what would happen with you and Hannah if you had to take a contract somewhere else? You guys are still so new.”
New? Technically, we aren’t even a thing yet. To her, it’s still just “practice.” But I can’t help hoping I’m not wrong in sensing that maybe, just maybe, it’s starting to mean more to her. When she asked the question this morning, I could feel her hesitance, her uncertainty. We just need more time—time we might not have if I’m traded.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out,” I tell him, giving him the closest thing to the truth I can muster.
His face is filled with pity, though he at least tries to hide it. “Fuck. I’m glad we have a day off tomorrow. My body needs it.” He attempts to stretch out but is too confined by the tiny chair. “I’m guessing I can’t convince you to hang out?”
“I can’t. I have plans with Hannah,” I say, but Fox parrots me, already knowing my answer.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I’m dreaming of Hannah,which isn’t anything new. What is new, though, is the dream being accompanied by the wet sensation on my neck.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I groan. I don’t remember her falling asleep with me last night. Did she sneak into my room this morning? I’m not complaining, but the idea seems so out of character for her, it’s a shock to my sleep-addled mind.
Her breathy laugh fills the room, but it sounds distant. Too far away for her to be the one licking my neck. My eyes fly open as I jackknife up in bed, blinking rapidly to focus my vision.
Hannah is across the room, standing in the doorway, doubled over in silent laughter, gasping for air between fits of hysterics. Fred is at her side, jumping in excitement.
“Please tell me that wasn’t the dog.”
