“There’s nothing to celebrate quite yet,” I tell him. “She could hate everything I’ve sent over.”
“Not a chance,” he assures me. “I read ‘Am I the Dumbass’ when it drops every week, and I know more than half the campus does the same.”
For a moment, I’m stunned silent. “When did you start reading my column?”
“The week after you started writing it. I never had time to look at the paper, but when everyone was talking about it a couple years ago, I got a hold of it before I even knew you were the author. Two lines in, and I recognized your snark. The byline confirmed what I already suspected, and that was it. I was hooked.”
“I treated you like my enemy. Why would you read my column?”
“Because it’s good,” he says simply. “Because I didn’t know what I’d done that was so wrong, but I knew I wanted to fix it.”
Before I can dwell on Pete’s words, Holland’s ordered shots for the two of us because she thinks we need to celebrate the fact that I’m on Prentiss’s radar. Talk turns to the hockey team, and there’s a lot to discuss. The guys are making a run for the championship, Kaden and Sophie are getting married, and JT and Maggie are going to be parents. I’m sucked into the conversation and that’s fine by me because the alternative is thinking about what Pete said, and that’s a dangerous place to go. Pete’s a guy I know. He’s my fake boyfriend. He’s a hockey player who’s doing me a favor. If I think of him as anything else, I might risk losing my heart to him, and that’s a chance I can’t take.
20
Pete
Don’t they say a blank screen is a writer’s worst enemy? Well, if they do, they’re correct. The empty text message on my phone is maddening enough to make me want to drink. Huh. Maybe this is why half the great writers of the last century succumbed to alcoholism.
I have no idea what to text Claire, but I know I have to write something because my whole family is expecting her at Gramma Dottie’s for dinner tomorrow night, which means I need to invite her.
I’d rather re-take my Organic Chem final than type out a few words, send them off into the cybersphere, and hope they land the way I want them to. In all fairness, I aced the O Chem test, but still. This text is harder to write than my final paper for Renaissance Lit. That shit took hours, but I pulled it together and earned an “A”. That’s the energy I need right now.
I’ve got to get this just right. Dating Claire might be a ruse, but spending time with her isn’t something I’m going to take for granted. It’s not that I expect this to go anywhere, but if she decides she wants to level up, I’m sureas hell gonna be ready. That’s why I’ve got to nail the wording of this text. Something tells me I’ve got one shot with Claire—if that—and if I blow it, there’s no takesy-backsies.
Running my hand through my unruly hair, I tug at the strands as though that will get my creative juices flowing. It’s not working, and I’m gripping my phone so damn tightly I’m in danger of cracking the screen.
“Have no fear, the love doctor is here.”
I look up to see Ollie settling into the seat next to me as though I invited him. I didn’t.
We won both games against Mountville this weekend, but our return bus trip feels like it’s taking forever. Or maybe that’s just because I’m tweaking over a stupid text. I’m about to tell him that he’s “helped” enough. But…maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I definitely wasn’t going to seek him out for advice, but hell, maybe I need some of his charisma to help me tap out this message.
“You texting Claire Bear?” he asks, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from cracking up. If Ollie ever called her that to her face, I’m fairly certain she’d rearrange his.
I shrug noncommittally. Maybe I should just ask Van for help. My best friend has charm to spare. But he’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake him. Plus, Ollie got me into this mess, so the least he can do is help me tap out a measly question.
“Hand over the phone, big guy,” my fellow defenseman says, gesturing with his fingers. “Let me see what you’ve got so far. Also, are we texting or sexting?”
Jesus.
“Wearen’t doing anything. I need to send a specific message to Claire, and you have appointed yourself as my secretary.”
He nods decisively. “Got it. We’re sexting.”
“No, the fuck we aren’t. I’m not sexting Claire, and you’re sure as hell not, either. We’re just sending a regular message.”
“Dude, why didn’t you just say so?” His fingers fly across the keyboard of my phone and when he hands it back to me, I roll my eyes.
Pete: wyd?
Ollie immediately goes on the defensive as I snag my phone out of his grip. “What? How is it my fault your fingers are broken, or you don’t know how to tell that gorgeous woman to get naked and into your bed, ASAP. We’ll be back in Bainbridge within the hour.”
“It’s not that kind of message, Ollie,” I say, summoning all the patience that is usually reserved for middle schoolers. “My brothers saw all the pics I’ve been tagged in, and they were curious as hell. So, instead of minding their business, they showed Ma and Gramma Dottie that carousel of photos you posted on the team’s account.”
“So? You looked good. And Claire’s hot,” he says, opening a bag of almonds and popping a few in his mouth. “No hate to our favorite reporter and her photographic prowess, but any dumbass with a decent phone can take a good enough shot for social media. Filters are our friends.”
I hold back a sigh, even though explaining my dilemma to Ollie is almost as time consuming as explaining Punnett Squares to a group of eighth graders. “They were great pics. So great, in fact, that my family can’t wait to meet my new girlfriend at dinner tomorrow night. Gramma’s making stuffed shells. It’s a whole thing. The problem is, I haven’t found the balls to ask Claire yet and since she’s the guest of honor, it’ll look pretty bad if she doesn’t show.”
