Page 55 of Scoring the Player
“Oooh. I forgot about those. Toss that here.”
She does and then comes to sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing a disgusted look over my candy preference.
I tear open the bag and pluck one out. I rip off a piece with my teeth and then shake it at her. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t judge you for the awful EDM music you like.”
“That was Robby’s music, not mine.”
“Uh-huh. I saw your sick dance moves. That was not the first time you’ve listened to house music and got your groove on.”
She laughs quietly and smiles at me. “Black licorice is gross.”
“Untrue. Plus, it’s lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yep. I’ve been eating it before every game for as long as I can remember.”
“Your pre-game meal includes candy?” She looks at me with this sassy, disbelieving look on her face that makes me smile bigger. I really like having her here in my space.
“Not a lot of candy. Black licorice should be savored, not devoured.” I eat another chunk. “One or two vines the night before.”
“How did that become your pre-game ritual?” she asks, staring at me like she’s riveted by the backstory. I’m not sure anyone’s asked me before.
“In high school, we’d stop at this gas station across from the school before away games and load up on junk food and snacks for the bus ride.”
“Super idea.” She laughs again.
“Young and dumb, but I guess we had stomachs of steel. Anyway, one day I grabbed a bag of black licorice and ended up having a great game. I threw over six hundred yards and ran in two touchdowns myself. It was just one of those rare, epic nights.” I shake the licorice at her again. “All thanks to black licorice.”
“Sure. It had nothing to do with your hard work and talent.”
“What’s your pre-tournament ritual?”
“I don’t really have one,” she says. “I guess I follow the same warm-up routine.”
“That definitely doesn’t count.” I sit up straighter and set the bag of licorice aside. “There has to be something you do, no matter how small or silly, to bring you luck before you play.”
“So, you admit it’s silly to think black licorice is responsible for your game performance?”
“I absolutely did not admit that. Come on, you don’t have any lucky charms?”
“I really don’t think so,” she says, glancing up through her thick, black lashes. “Is that strange? Am I the weird one here? I have rituals, but nothing like a special food I have to eat or a rabbit’s foot I carry in my pocket.”
“You’re not weird. Just obviously less superstitious than me.”
She makes a soft noise like a hum, then her gaze circles the room again. “I like it, and you described it really well. Right down to the laundry basket full of clothes.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time in here.” Although now that the season is starting, I will be here more than I have been. I don’t party at all during the week when we have a game the following weekend. I’ll kick back on Saturday nights after we play, but the other six days, I’m completely focused on football.
“I spend so much time in my room,” she says. “I always have. My parents used to joke and say I locked myself in my dungeon for days at a time.”
“I get bored by myself.”
Her lips part, like she’s about to hit me with some smart-ass comment about boring myself, so I lunge for her. My arms circle her waist and my fingers tickle her sides as I bring her down on top of me.
“So not fair.” She wriggles and squirms.
I relent, but keep her close. She glances up at me and the smile on her face dims slowly as our gazes lock. Her chest rises and falls as she catches her breath. I try, and fail, not to look at her lips. Soft and pink and begging to be kissed.
