Page 12 of Playing Games

“What made you choose Dickson? Given that you grew up in Southern California, I can’t imagine this was a school on your initial short list.”

I take a lick of ice cream, and he smiles. “Ah, see, I guess you don’t knowallmy stats. My grandfather went here. Played quarterback on one of the first Dickson teams to make it to the play-offs. In fact, he was a part of the graduating class you mentioned just tonight, at Double C.”

“You’re kidding.”

He laughs. “I’m not.”

“You knew the switched seats?”

Blake winks, and I groan. “Oh my God. Why in the hell didn’t you just find them, then? Win the money?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t want the night to be over too soon. It’s the end of the semester. Who knows when I would have gotten to see you again?”

“And your entry money…what about that?”

“Trust me, this ending is worth the sixty bucks.”

My gaze jerks to his, and my stomach turns over yet again. It’s a foreign feeling—one I didn’t even think I was capable of having, truth be told. My mind races to figure out if this is all just a part of a smooth-talking game or if he really thinks my company is worth a sixty-dollar loss and a very close call with losing his entire scholarship.

Instead of saying anything, I bite into my cone and work at the last vestiges of mocha mint chip ice cream from the student dining hall. I expect him to fill the quiet with mindless chatter, but he sits comfortably in the silence, finishing his vanilla peanut butter mixture from his bowl.

It takes a minute, but I finally work up the courage to consider the conversation, ignoring the fact that I’ve pointedly excused a whole section of undeniable compliments directed toward me. “What about your parents?” I ask him. “Where did they go to school?”

“My mom didn’t go to four-year college. She’s a paralegal. And my dad went to USC for both undergrad and law school. They met when my dad started at his first firm.”

I smile, the comfort of having something in common putting me a little more at ease. “My parents met at work too. My mom is the head on-staff physician for the Mavericks.”

“This might be an overly personal question, but we are getting to know each other, so I’m just going to ask it, and if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

I tense but nod anyway. “Sure.”

“Why is your last name Winslow and not Lancaster?”

“Wes isn’t my biological father,” I answer simply. I know people like to tiptoe around familial intricacies, but after nearly twenty years with Wes in my life, I see our situation as fact. He didn’t create me, but that doesn’t make him any less of a dad. “My mom gave me her last name.”

Blake nods. “And your bio dad…is he in the picture?”

“Oh. Yeah. Nick’s a good dad too, really, save some stupid decisions upon my conception and birth, but he’s in Germany now, heading up a world-renowned neurological research clinic. I see him a couple times a year, but we speak often.”

“Siblings?”

“One. My brother, Wes Jr., is thirteen. I hardly understand anything he says, and yet, I know with an almost certainty that he’s roasting me.”

Blake chuckles. “I hear that’s why younger siblings exist…to humble you.”

“I take it you don’t have any, then?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Only child.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “It’s all making sense now. The confidence, the ego, the garish refusal to hear the word no…you’re a walking billboard for too much attention and unconditional love.”

“No such thing,” he refutes easily.

“Oh, please. You can absolutely be spoiled.”

“Can’t spoil people like you can milk.” He smiles. “That’s what my mom always says.”

I guffaw. “Well, there you have it. A complete picture.”

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