Page 47 of Offside Play

You better believe I pull her chair out for her, too.

“You want a coffee?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’ll go get one,” she says, pushing her chair back from the table.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I exclaim hastily, halting her before she can stand up. “Where do you think you’re going?” I lean across the table and whisper. “You want your ex to think you’re dating a cheapskate? Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t need my boyfriend buying me everything.”

I ratchet my voice lower. “I’m supposed to be the kind of boyfriend who wants to buy you things,” I say with a grin.

“Fine,” she concedes, bringing a smile to my face. She tells me what she wants, and I go up and order it. But it’s only seconds later that I feel her at my side.

“Oh, I want one of those, too,” she exclaims, looking straight at the brownie that just tempted me.

“You got it,” I say, telling the barista to add it to the order. I carry Summer’s drink and her brownie back to our table for her. If Sean’s looking on, I want him to know he’s utterly outclassed as a boyfriend. That he doesn’t have a fucking chance of winning her back.

I wonder how good it would feel for this to be real. To spoil Summer because I want to, not just to put on a show for another guy.

I wipe that thought out of my mind. That’s exactly the kind of thing I just told myself I shouldn’t be thinking.

When we get back to our table and sit down, Summer’s eyes are suddenly wide, gleaming with excitement. “Oh! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”

“What?”

“We might have a name!”

I purse my lips questioningly. “Name?”

“For the cat! If you like it that is.”

“What?” I’m intrigued. The poor girl’s way past due for one.

“Salsa.”

My brow clinches. Not a name I was expecting. “Salsa?”

“Yeah,” Summer says, bringing her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Just a couple minutes before you texted, Olivia was having a snack of tortilla chips and salsa. She took the jar out to the living room with her, and your cat kept trying to get a taste of it.” She laughs some more. “The poor girl wanted that salsa so bad. But it’s not good for cats.”

My lips twitch and a low chuckle rumbles in my chest, visualizing my cat insistently trying to lap at the salsa while Summer’s roommate plays keep-away. “Salsa,” I ponder, trying out the name.

She has a spicy temper, so it fits her on that count. At least she did with everyone she met before Summer.

I try to tell myself that her sudden friendliness around Summer is just because I did such a good job as an owner for the two weeks I had her. That I let her become socially rehabilitated. But I can’t even convince myself of that one. It’s probably just that even an animal—maybe especially an animal—can sense that Summer has a good heart.

“What do you think?” There’s an excitement in Summer’s voice that tells me she likes the name.

You know what? I like it, too.

“Salsa,” I try it out again. Then I nod. “I like it.”

“Yay!” Summer exclaims, clapping her hands. “She finally has a name!” Her smile is bright and warm enough to thaw my icy heart.

“If she were still with me, it probably would’ve taken me another six months to come up with a name,” I reflect.

Summer laughs. “I’m sure you could’ve come up with one in no more than four and a half,” she quips, drawing a smile to my mouth. She breaks off a piece of her brownie and pushes it in my direction. “Celebration brownie?” she asks.

“I don’t eat sugar. Remember?”

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