Page 2 of The One Night Dash
“Fine, whatever,” I cave …like always.
The bathroom opens, and Glitter Bunny heads toward the door. She knows the deal. Just two adults with the same idea of fun. No delusions of love floating in her head.
I get the ping notifying me the ride’s here and open the front door for her, phone still pressed to my ear, Briar still narrating the love story of the century.
Glitter Bunny gives me a wink and slides out.
I shut the door and walk back to my room.
“Are you even there?” Briar asks.
I flop back on the bed and finally answer Briar correctly. “Yes, tell me more aboutPrince Charming.Because, clearly, I’ve got time for fairy tales before practice.”
“Like I said, I met him at the library,” she breathes, like that alone seals the deal. “Not even the loud, group-project part of the library—the quiet floor. He was sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs by the window, reading a book for his political science seminar. Poli-sci, Dash. He actually wants tochange the world.And when I dropped my highlighter, he picked it up and said,” she pauses for effect.“‘Looks like someone takes her studies seriously.’”
I stare at the ceiling and roll my eyes. “Wow. Shakespeare’s got nothing on him.”
“Don’t be a dick,” she huffs, then softens immediately. “He wasn’t hitting on me. He was … noticing me. Like,reallyseeing me. He asked what I was studying, and when I told him kinesiology, he said it was amazing how athletes learn to train the body as much as the mind. Dash, he gets it. He getsme.”
I bite back a laugh. This is the same girl who swore the guy who sold her a fake parking pass was “deep” because he called her car a chariot.
But Briar barrels on, unstoppable. “And then he asked if I wanted to grab coffee, and it wasn’t sleazy or suggestive—it was polite. Respectful. He opened the door for me, Dash. He carried my books. And when I laughed at something dumb, he didn’t just nod—he laughed,like it mattered.”
I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. She falls fast, and she falls hard. And even though I want to tell her every guy in college knows how to hold a door, I don’t.
I ask a simple question, “Does he like soccer?”
“No, but?—”
“Briar, you play D1 soccer, and this guy doesn’t even like your sport?”
“He doesn’t have to like it to like me, any more than I have to pretend I like politics to keep his interest, Dash. Don’t you see? He’s perfect. Like so perfect he didn’t even ask me back to his place like every other jackoff at this school.”
My body goes tense at the thought. “And if he had, you’d have told himnolike you do every guy who wants to,” I damn-near throw up in my mouth, “messwith you, right?”
“Circling back to the fact you have no right to judge me, especially since you are?—”
“I have no intentions or interest in falling in love, no time to do so, and I make damn sure whoever I …messwith knows that.”
“What about that girl at Hayward? You were in lo?—”
“I was eighteen and never once told her I loved her.”
“But you did love her,” she states.
“Clearly not.” I laugh.
“I call bullshit, big bro.”
I roll to my side and try to get comfortable, hoping like hell I can fall back to sleep for half an hour. “Call all you want, Briar, but try to wait until eight in the morning?”
“I wanted to call you last night, but you were playing hockey.”
I force myself to bite back how I’d really like to respond, which is difficult when I’ve been trained to react without pause since my dad laced up my first pair of skates when I was three years old. But Mom has drilled it into my head that, with my sisters and women in general, I’m supposed to think before I speak. So, I take a brief second to choose my words.
“I’m not saying this is you.”Total bullshit—of course it’s her. “But did I ever tell you about my buddy Johnny?”
“Johnny?” she asks.
