I’m no scientist, but my hypothesis is that Maggie’s more interested in me than she’d like to admit. I could be wrong, so I’ll take my little theory for a test drive. I bypass the water dispenser to my left and head for the one closer to the entrance. This route takes me right past Maggie’s table and…yep. I turn the corner just in time to catch her staring at my ass.
Inwardly, I grin.
What can I say? My backside is a thing of beauty, or so I’ve been told. You could bounce a quarter off it. I know this because Ollie’s done it several times. The day the man finds a half-dollar, I’m gonna get a bruise.
I’ve literally gotten cat-called on the pool deck. One time, a group of PTO moms asked me if I’d pose for their charity calendar. I don’t know how they got that fundraiser past the school board, but I politely declined.
I’ve never understood the attention I’ve gotten for looking a certain way. It’s not why I work out. My job is to perform on the ice and the best way to do that is to be in peak physical condition. Given that I’m a goalie, it helps that I could probably make final callbacks for Cirque du Soleil.
I’ve never been the type to flaunt my body for a reaction. But right now, Maggie’s biting her lip, and that’s all the gratification I need. She thinks I can’t see her, but I’ll be replaying that dazed look on her face when I add ten reps to my butterfly splits tonight.
Purely for the sake of science, I drop some napkins on the floor and stoop to pick them up, all while balancing two full trays with my left hand. If I could see myself right now, I’d probably laugh my ass off. I must look like I’m auditioningfor a porno called “Cakes in the Cafeteria” or some shit. But I’d gladly do a striptease on the salad bar if it meant Maggie’s eyes would stay glued on me.
She must realize I’ve caught her watching because whatever’s on her plate is suddenly the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
When she first spotted me and the shock registered on her face, I was fully on board to walk away. I’m no creeper.
But Maggie might be.
And I’m more than okay with that.
I may not believe in plans, but I surely believe in signs. And the few times in my life that I’ve ignored the signs in front of me are my biggest regrets.
She’s sitting at a four top and all the other seats are empty. Instead of sliding into the unoccupied chair across from hers, I choose the next table over. I’m not a fucking fool. Maggie wasn’t thrilled to see me, but she was happy as fuck to ogle me. If I want a shot at spending any more time with her—and I definitely do— then I’ve got to play this just right.
Setting my trays and water bottle down, I take a minute to toss my bag on the seat next to me before unwrapping my silverware and dousing my sweet potato fries with ranch.
I haven’t acknowledged Maggie yet, but she’s noticed me. From the corner of my eye, I can see her opening her mouth and closing it. If she finds her words and tells me to fuck off, I’ll go. But my gut says she’s not going to do that.
For now, I’ll just eat my food and wait her out.
It takes about two minutes for her to break.
“Are you expecting friends?” she asks.
That’s not what I thought she’d say, but maybe she’s still hung up on the idea of secrecy? I mean, we’re both fully clothed, and to any outside observer, we’re just two college students in a semi-crowded cafeteria.But maybe she’s really into making small talk like we’re strangers.
“No, why?” I answer, letting my curiosity get the better of me.
The reason for her question is clear when she looks at my plate—scratch that—myplates.
“Whoa, are you food-shaming me right now? I didn’t take you for the type,” I say, holding back a laugh and shaking my head. “You think you know someone.”
Her cheeks are pink from my teasing, but she volleys back, “You don’t know me.”
“Don’t I?”
We hold each other’s stare in a post-hook-up game of cat-and-mouse. I may not know Maggie’s favorite color or her birthday or even her major, but there’s no denying the fact that we know each other.
She blinks first and ducks her head like she’s checking her phone. She scrolls around for a minute then returns to her salad, picking through the lettuce to get to the good stuff. I turn my attention to my own tray and dig in. The sheer number of calories I burn in a day means that I need an obscene amount of food to fuel my body. I’m three bites into my plate of pasta when I feel Maggie’s eyes on me. I swallow my bite and reach for my napkin. “Is there sauce on my face?”
“No, no. I just—” Those perfectly rounded cheeks flame a little brighter. “Um, is that good? The pasta? I’ve only ever gotten the chicken Caesar salad here.”
Her question is ridiculous. I know it. She knows it. Classes have only been in session for a week, so it stands to reason that Maggie hasn’t sampled every item on the menu. And I’m not one for chit chat. If literally anyone else on campus asked me about the quality of my meal, I’d offer them a blank stare and say that it’s fine. That’s no lie. It’s food. It’s hot and fully cooked and edible. I didn’t have to make it or do the dishes, so that probably earns it a higher ranking.
I should have my phone out and my AirPods in. I should be chowing down while scrolling through sports highlights.Hell, I could even crack open my anatomy textbook and get a little reading done. That’s what I’d do if I were sitting here next to anybody else, my teammates included.
Instead, I take a drink and nod. “Yeah, it’s pretty good. The alfredo’s better, though. They only make that on Fridays.” It’s far from sparkling conversation, but I don’t care. I’m talking to the girl who’s been on my mind since the minute we met. If she wants me to sit here and rate every dish they serve in the dining hall, I’ll gladly do it.
