Page 14 of Save the Game

“Oh! Yeah, I like them. They’ve got heart,” he says, scratching at his forehead and trying to adjust his hair. He holds out one of the breakfast sandwiches to me.

“You do know the point of a hat is to shade your face, right?”

“Huh?” He says, around a mouthful of croissant. One of his eyes is squinted shut, as though the sun is hitting it wrong.

“Wearing your hat backward is pointless. The brim is meant to shade your face,” I repeat. He grins at me, crookedly.

“But it looks cooler like this.”

“No, it just looks like you don’t know how to wear a hat.”

He laughs and tilts his face upward as though trying to catch the sun. His skin is a soft, smooth brown, telling of hours spent outside playing baseball. I can smell the sunscreen and sunshine on his skin, mixing with the saltwater scent of the ocean. For the first time in a long time, I fantasize about kissing someone on the mouth.

“I’m glad you came,” he says, dusting his hands off after inhaling his breakfast. Hands placed in the sand behind him, he leans back. His camera is resting in his lap, forgotten.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” I sound surprised, even to my own ears. Funny, given I was worried about him not showing up.

“I ask a lot of people out. I’d say I have about a fifty-percent success rate.” He grins and nudges my leg with his knee to let me know this is a joke.

“Were the other fifty-percent blind?”

“You are a terrible flirt, Maxy. Absolutely incorrigible,” he says loftily. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“You’ve been told that before, have you?”

Laughing, he leans forward and dusts his hands off. “I am a delight, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Grabbing his camera from his lap, he stands. Looping the strap around his neck, he dusts off the backs of his legs, shaking his hips a little and giving me something else to fantasize about. When he holds a hand out to me, I don’t even hesitate to grab it. Once he’s pulled me to standing, he lets go and starts walking backward.

“All right, muse, strike a pose.” He lifts the camera off of his chest.

“Absolutely not, Luke. Put that away,” I angle my body sideways in case he tries to take a picture. “Take pictures of the ocean, isn’t that why we’re here?”

“No, idiot, we’re here to take pictures of you next to the ocean.”

“Luke,” I warn, when he shows signs of wanting to lift the camera to his eye.

“All right, fine. Let’s walk.” He beckons me with a hand and we set off, strolling along close enough to the edge that the water laps against our ankles. My already sore thighs burn anew.

Every now and then Luke drops back, stopping to pick up a seashell or take a picture. He brings me a piece of driftwood to show me the initials carved into the side.

“Where do you think it came from?” He marvels, looking at it happily before placing it back on the beach. “So, Maxy, tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Anything. Everything. I want to know so much about you, I could write your biography.”

“Oh, I’m not interesting,” I demure. “Tell me about you instead.”

He tips his face to the sky and rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m not interesting says the guy who was drafted to play hockey in the highest league possible. I’m not interesting says the guy who reads sad Russian literature for fun and picks up hot strangers at diners.”

“I didn’t pick you up,” I point out. “You just sort of attached yourself to me.”

“Like a cuddly and adorable koala.”

“Or a parasite.”

This time, when he tips his head back, he laughs. I smile, trying not to openly stare at him and failing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone this handsome up close before.

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