Page 30 of Scoring Zone
I’m not in love with him.
That would be insane.
“Careful.” Austin puts his hands on my waist to stop me from backing up into him. My body burns where he touches me, craving more. “They’re all good. Gossiping about Pride Night and the gala from what I heard.”
I have to curb my feelings. If I don’t, I can lose him, my job, and a group of guys who will choose him as their friend. In a twist, this line of thinking only encourages the otherness I hateso much. But I don’t belong with Austin or with the team without him. Maintaining separateness is the only way to go.
“Shit.”
Austin’s comment reminds me I forgot to text Trevor back about getting my measurements for the gala suit. He sent me links to different suits, and I picked a couple. He just needs my size.
“Swearing at yourself or me?” Austin tightens his fingers around my midsection before letting go.
I catch myself before I collide with him to maintain contact. “Me. I forgot to get back to Trevor.”
I’m relieved when a volunteer comes over to get the veggies from me. The last thing I need is to slice a finger off because I’m preoccupied with my hot roommate.
“Yikes. Text him now. You don’t want to get on his bad side.” Austin lifts his foot, and it connects with my shin, not in a kick sort of way, but a footsie sort of way. I’m clearly losing my mind and reading more into the touch.
But he’s touching me more, or it seems like more. He’s never been a touchy guy, stopping with fist bumps, backslaps, and bro hugs with pads on. He rarely bro-hugs his teammates in street clothes, even though most of the players do it.
I’m seeking out the very thing that will ruin us.
“Truth,” I agree, and pull out my phone for something to do before our next assignment.
There’s plenty to do to set up for dinner service, so once Trevor and I coordinate a meeting, I don’t dwell on Austin, even though I’m hyperaware of his location.
An hour later, we’re side by side, serving stew and salad to middle schoolers and teens who are not impressed with the dinner.
“I thought it was lasagna night,” says a gangly teen with long limbs he hasn’t figured out how to use yet. He snatches his plateaway before Austin can put salad on it. “I only eat it if I’m tossing salad. Ya feel me, bro.”
“I’m a big fan of this salad. It helps me stay in playing shape,” Austin says sincerely, and receives an eye roll. “Why do we like this again? What in the hell does he mean, tossing salad, isn’t that what this is?” he asks me under his breath once the kid has walked away.
“Because we’re helping the community and the little heathens are so thankful, we can’t stay away,” I deadpan. “And I have no idea, hang on.” Pulling out my phone, I ask the app, “Hey Annie, what’s the Urban Dictionary definition of ‘tossing salad’?”
The Annie app doesn’t speak, which is strange, and when I read it, I understand why. “We’re old. It’s the new way to say eating ass.”
Austin tries to stifle his laugh but snorts instead.
“Who are you again?” A girl with purple hair points a yellow nail at me. “You’re not on the roster. Are you even allowed to be here?”
“Hey, Bex. I can’t decide if you’re face blind or purposely hurting me.” I clutch my chest with the hand not serving her stew.
She gives me a slow once-over but then turns to Austin with a blindingly bright smile.
“Hey you.” She twirls her hair. “Great game the other night.”
“Which night?” he asks, clamping his lips together because she’s full of shit. I’m proud he’s learned these kids’ tricks.
“The night you played the purple-and-black team.” She bats her eyelashes.
“For future reference, we’re the purple-and-black team,” he says, and she huffs. “And extra bread will cost you a toonie.”
“What the hell is that?” she snarls in disgust.
“Canadian money.” I stifle a laugh, and she storms away.
“And be nice to my roommate,” he calls after her.
