Page 39 of Shots on Net

Feeling a little bit frantic, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. I live close to campus and there is still fifteen minutes until eight o’clock, but I don’t want to push the time any closer than needed. I need to pick Zeke up on time, and I told him I’d be back by eight.

“Uhm.” I glance up at coach and back down at my phone. I watch the time tick to 7:46. “Sure?”

Coach Mackenzie stares at me. The silence goes on long enough that I fidget. Sometimes I wonder if he can read minds.

“You’re in a hurry,” he says, in a way that makes it clear he’s not asking a question. “Big plans, tonight?”

“No. I mean, yeah. Kind of.” Oh my god, Carter, calm the fuck down. “Uhm, I have a date, actually.”

“Do you?” Coach’s expression softens into a small smile. He sounds pleased. “Well, I won’t keep you. We can talk tomorrow. Please, drive safely and have fun.”

He starts to turn away, but I take a step toward him. I want him to know, suddenly, who my date is with. “With Zeke. My roommate. That’s who I’m going out with. On a date. You met him, remember?”

Shut up, Jesus Christ. Cringing, I clamp my lips shut. I hope I can get control of myself before tonight; I sound like a blithering idiot. Coach Mackenzie looks at me, head cocked slightly to the side. Once more, I have the uncomfortable sensation of being x-rayed.

“Is that so? I’m glad to hear it.”

I feel like I’m glowing; Coach Mackenzie’s approval ranks higher than anyone else’s. “Yeah, thanks. So…can I go? Or…”

“Yes, go. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he sounds amused as he waves a hand to send me on my way.

This time, when I head out toward the parking lot, I really do start to jog. Nerves and excitement war for dominance in my gut. I take a second to check my hair in the visor mirror; my silver nose ring glints in the overhead light of the car. Debating for a second whether I should take it out or not, I slap the visor back up against the roof. I’m being ridiculous.

Zeke

Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I sigh. Unfortunately, this is as good as it is going to get. Snapping the light off, I bemoan the fact that the length of my hair is getting quite ridiculous at this point. I desperately need a haircut. I also desperately need new clothes. Looking down, I smooth my hands over the nicest shirt I own and try not to feel badly about it. I remind myself that this is Carter I’m going out with, and he’s the least materialistic person I’ve ever met. He probably won’t even notice what I’m wearing.

Going downstairs, I settle on the couch to wait. It’s about ten minutes until eight, which probably only gives me a few minutes to sit here and freak out. I’ve been on so few dates in my life that each one feels like a massive hurdle. I’m always wondering if I’m acting weird, talking too much or too little, or if there is food stuck in my teeth. Almost every single date I’ve been on has ended with me wondering why I even bother.

I hear the car seconds before headlights swing into the driveway and illuminate the living room. Standing up and wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I head toward the front door. I get there just as it’s opened by Carter, who looks startled to see me standing on the other side. I move back a step so I can take him in; he’s wearing another green shirt, but this one is plain and short-sleeved, ink trailing down his arms. Dark jeans once more, fitted well enough to have been made for him. He smells good again, although it’s a scent I can’t identify. Looking at him and knowing that we’re about to go on a date makes me feel strange; it feels like my insides are reaching for him.

“Hi. Sorry, I’m late,” Carter says, breathless and a little bit edgy.

“You’re not late.” I smile. He backs up a step and holds the door open so I can walk through it. I take a big breath of air through my nose as I pass— he just smells so good. “Right on time, actually.”

“Yeah. I was hoping to be early, though,” he opens the passenger door of the car as he speaks, waiting until I’m seated before closing it gently. I have to clench my fingers in my lap to keep from fidgeting. My pulse feels thready and I’m a bit lightheaded. Carter slides into the driver’s seat and I remind myself that there is no reason to be nervous.

“I am so nervous,” I admit, and then silently curse myself. Sometimes, I have no control over my own tongue.

Carter’s chest expands under the tight shirt, giving me something interesting to stare at. He’s silent as he backs us out of the drive, but glances over at me and smiles, carefully.

“Me, too,” he says, and immediately I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest. “I couldn’t get a table at the same place as before, since this was sort of short notice. But there is a nice place on the Boardwalk that shouldn’t be too busy on a weekday, and then I thought…maybe we could walk around after, if it’s nice. Unless you don’t want to, which is fine. Whatever you want to do. You like seafood, right?”

I’m once again struck by the sensation of my body reaching for his. He’s never chatty, so he really must be nervous. It’s endearing and a little bit of an ego boost, knowing that I’m the reason he’s nervy. It makes me want to do something bold like hold his hand, or hug him again.

“That’s a good idea. And yes, I love seafood. We didn’t eat it a lot growing up, so it always feels like a bit of a treat.”

He lets out a relieved exhalation and adjusts his hands on the steering wheel. “Okay, good. I probably should have asked before, if you had any allergies or anything.”

“Nope, not me. I’ll eat anything and everything,” I tell him.

The passing streetlights offer brief illumination in the car, but it’s dark enough that I can’t see his face well. The radio is on, very low and barely discernable; it’s something acoustic and jazzy, making me wonder if Carter put on music that he thought might be romantic. Looking away from him and out the window, I smile at the thought. Scary Carter Morgan III is a closet romantic—who knew?

It’s a short drive to the restaurant, though it takes several circles before we find a parking spot. He’s biting his lip as he unclips his seatbelt, perhaps wondering if the restaurant will be busier than he thought it would be for a Wednesday. Before I can push open my door and climb out, he stops me.

“Wait for a second,” he says, before flinging his own door open and making me fear for the vehicle parked next to us.

I stay seated and watch as he jogs around the front of the car and pops open my door. When I slide out of the seat and stand next to him, it puts us close together in the limited space between the parked cars. He closes the door gently, clicks the lock on his key fob, and places a soft hand on my mid back. It’s a careful, restrained bit of contact that makes my chest ache; he’s trying to be respectful of boundaries.

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