Page 57 of The Assist
He shrugs and stands, turning his body so he can place one hand on the headrest of his seat and one on the seat in front of him. “Yo, boys. Our point man needs a little girl advice. Anyone got any experience with texting blunders? Specifically telling your girl that you love her for the first time over text?”
The bus erupts with noise. Some cheers and words of encouragement and some heckling me as if I were on the opposing team.
Coach, who sits two rows in front of us, moves to the aisle and the bus quiets. His suit jacket is unbuttoned and hangs open. He’s a commanding man, and not just because he’s our coach. We respect him beyond that.
“Sit down, Moreno. You’re the last person who should be giving Reynolds advice.”
A collective chuckle waves through the bus and Joel sits.
“Good game tonight, guys. We’re going to take tomorrow and Friday off.” Applause rings out, and Coach lifts a hand. “But I expect you all to be back Saturday ready to practice hard.”
The bus comes to a stop at the fieldhouse. “And, Reynolds,” Coach says as I stand and move past him in the aisle, “for the love of God, don’t text anything else. Some things are meant to be said and heard. Go tell her in person.”
I practically run from the bus to the locker room, where I deposit my gear. I shower quickly, pulling the plain white T-shirt over my head while my skin is still damp.
Z puts a hand on my shoulder before I can sprint off. “The guys and I are heading to the Moreno house tonight. Happy Thanksgiving man.”
I know them staying at Joel’s tonight instead of The White House is for me, and I would kiss his bald head if I could reach it. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Shaw notices my urgency. “Might want to slow your roll. Too eager, and you’ll scare her away. Chicks smell desperation like dogs smell fear.”
I don’t dignify his remark with a response, but as I walk up to the front of the house, I do make a point to take my time, slow my breathing, and get my shit together.
The house is quiet—almost eerily so. I take the stairs to the second level two at a time, unable to restrain my desire to see her any longer.
The light in my room is on, and Blair sits at my desk, earbuds in and a notebook in front of her with a pen poised in one hand. She stares straight forward in deep concentration.
I cross the room quietly, taking in the number twelve jersey she wears with my name printed across the back and the cut-off jean shorts that are inched up, showing off those legs that I can’t get enough of.
She’s stunning.
I tug on one of the earbuds, and she startles, letting out a little squeal and pressing a hand to her heart.
“You scared me.” She pulls out the other earbud and uncrosses her legs. “I can usually hear you three coming from a mile away.”
Her eyes dart past me like she’s expecting to hear or see signs of my roommates.
“They decided to stay at Joel’s parents’ house tonight so they could sleep in and then roll out of bed in time for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“No such luck for us. I promised Gabby we’d stop by to see her in the morning and then stay for lunch with her family. I hope that’s okay. She’s dying to meet you.”
“You mean to grill me?”
What is it with girls always wanting to interrogate the guys who date their friends? I’ve never once considered inserting myself into one of my buddy’s relationships. Hell, if I did, I’d be more likely to tell them to run away than to warn them against hurting my friend. Perhaps that’s the root of the problem. My buddies, my teammates, and I are typically stereotyped as the ones breaking hearts.
In the case of Joel and some of the other guys on the team, that’s probably true. But I’m not looking to break her anything. I don’t have time for games. The life that Joel lives doesn’t interest me. He uses women as a distraction from his time off the court, a rush to tide him over until the next game or practice. Not me. Distractions are expensive.
My edge on the court is that I’ve studied and prepared better and harder off the court. Allowing a woman to have that time is like giving away some of my edge. And she’s the first girl I’ve ever even considered doing that for. A smidge of edge for more of Blair.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I say and mean it.
I stare at her, wondering if she’s going to say more. If she’s going to mention the love-bomb I dropped. She doesn’t.
I should be relieved, but the way she’s avoiding it makes me realize Iwantto talk about it. I want her to acknowledge that this thing between us is something important.
Petty as it is, I want her to voice that my loving her, real or not, is a big freaking deal. If she weren’t in my life, I’d spend the night reflecting on the game and my performance and looking for areas to improve.
But, now, I just want to focus on her.
