Page 32 of O Goalie Night
“I know, but I don’t mind. You can fill me in about your week on the way. Tell me what I’ve missed.”Aside from you.
“But…it’s just…you know.” She’s practically squirming with unease.
Has something changed while I was gone? We've spent the past week trading texts, each exchange of our banter easily becoming the best part of my day. Why does it suddenly seem like she can’t get away from me fast enough?
“Okay,” I laugh to mask my disappointment. “I can take a hint. Have a good time at your party.” I shoot her what I hope is a convincing smile before I start to walk away.
“No one at school knows I’m Ben’s sister.”
I turn back around, not knowing what this has to do with me driving her to school. “Okay.”
“And they definitely don’t know I’m staying with you.”
Ah.
“Beth,” I hedge, playfully. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
She covers her face with her hands. “No! Of course not. But if they see you dropping me off, they’re going to have questions. What if someone recognizes you?”
“I won’t wear my goalie mask.”
“Foster, please.” Her hands find her hips and my eyes linger there for a moment too long. “People Magazine put you in their Fifty Most Beautiful Athletes edition last year.”
I grin. “Did you purchase that magazine?”
“No.” Her denial comes too quickly and she won’t meet my eye.
“Oh wow, you did. Do you have it here? Do you want me to sign it?” I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but she’s so fucking cute when she’s embarrassed. I hated every goddamn second of that photoshoot, but her reaction right now makes every awkward pose worth it.
This is the best day of my life.
“I hate you,” she says pushing past me.
“Wait,” I rush ahead of her, putting myself between her and the door. “I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses. No one is going to recognize me.”
“But they still might ask who you are.”
I shrug. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”
Am I a masochist? Maybe.
She looks shocked by the suggestion. I’d be offended if she wasn’t blushing so hard. “No one is going to believe that, Foster,” she takes her coat from the closet and throws it on.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one, this.” She waves her hand dramatically like she’s drawing an imaginary circle around me. “And then there’s this.” She repeats the motion only on herself this time.
“I’m not following.”
At this she laughs, rolling her eyes. “Of course you’re not. You know what, it’s fine. Let’s go, fake boyfriend.”
We catch up on the drive to school. She talks about her students and what they’ve been working on in class. I update her on one of the team’s forwards, Fischers, who got injured in the last game we played against Colorado. He’s fine, but he’ll be sidelined for at least the next three games.
When she informs me that she’s found a yoga studio nearby and has attended a few classes I do my best to not picture her clad in lycra as she bends herself into various positions.
It’s very difficult.
As I pull into the elementary school parking lot, the morning hustle is in full swing. Minivans and SUVs are lined up as kids with backpacks almost as big as they are jump out and wave goodbye to their parents.
