Page 7 of The Enemy Face Off

"No. I paused between the wordsjustandnothing. On the page, it would have been written asjust ellipsis nothing."

"On the page?" I lift my chin. "You really love books, don't you?"

She slow claps. "Well deduced. I work in a bookstore, so yes, I like books. I'll save you the hassle and let you know that Hannah, who works in a flower shop, likes flowers, and Amiel, who works in a bakery, likes pastries."

"Let me see if I'm getting this right, because you know"—I tap my head—"Ape for brain here. But first, you belittle my manhood, and now you're questioning my intelligence?"

"Correct." Beth rocks on her feet. "On both counts."

Ooh, I like this girl.

Ireallylike this girl.

And if this is how she wants to play, then game on!

"All right." I plant my hands on my hips. "What's the plural of cul de sac?"

"Excuse me?"

"Need me to speak slower to help you understand?"

She huffs out another cute sound before responding. "Cul de sacs, duh."

"Errr!" I make the sound a game show buzzer makes for an incorrect answer. "I'm sorry, but you're wrong."

"What? No I'm not."

"You are. The plural of cul de sac is culs de sac."

"But thatsoundswrong."

"And yet, it's correct."

As she whips out her phone, I widen my stance to even out our height difference.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"I want to get the close-up view for when you see you're wrong. I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy it. Also…" I point to the sidewalk again, "plenty of space for you to navigate around me with your head bowed in shame for your loser walk."

Her eyes fire up at the insult. "Oh, I am not the one who will be doing a loser walk, my friend."

"Ah, so we're friends?"

Another adorable little noise. "Shut up."

She purses her lips and focuses on her phone. "That can't be right," she mutters, scrolling more and more aggressively. "Give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need,friend."

It's not going to help her.

She may think I'm just another dumb pro athlete, but I actually do like to read—psychological and domestic thrillers are my genres—and English was always my best subject in school.

She finally gives up.

Clearing her throat, she says something that sounds like, "Youwereright," but she says it so quickly I can barely distinguish the words.

I point to my temple again. "Man. Words. Too fast. No understand."

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