Page 54 of Playing Games

Her advice isn’t based on all the variables of Blake’s and my reality. It doesn’t take into account that he’s the star quarterback here at Dickson or the fact that I’m a few years older than him and soon to be finished with academia and taking that giant leap into adulthood.

And it certainly doesn’t consider my lack of emotional intelligence and clear uncertainties on whether I’m even capable of being in love with someone like my mom is with my stepdad or Finn is with Scottie.

Thankfully, Ginger senses my hesitancy to continue this line of conversation and changes the subject toward her dissertation and everything she still needs to do. I nod along, but my mind is still spinning over her advice.

Even though she doesn’t know all the sordid details of Blake and me or the intricacies of my complex mind, I know there’s some truth to her words.

And deep down, I do want to try. With Blake. It’s why I ended up kissing him outside of Dragon Stadium just a few hours ago, without even calculating the risk that anyone could have witnessed it.

But the biggest question that gnaws at me the most is, will my pace with our relationship ever be good enough for Blake?More like, will your fear of the unknown and inability to let go of control ultimately hold you back from something extraordinary?

I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to try. I’m going to follow through with what I told him I wanted. I’m going to do my best to give this whole Blake and me thing a shot.

I’m going to follow through on my promise from earlier.

And the play clock officially starts now—or, you know, whenever Blake gets home tonight.

It’s just a little after ten, and I’m standing outside Blake’s apartment door, constantly glancing around the hallway to make sure no one sees me.

I worry my teeth into my bottom lip, my mind racing with the abnormal behavior I am so clearly displaying right now. Frankly, I don’t know who this girl is—who chases down football players outside of stadiums and kisses them out in the open and begs them to give her another chance and waits outside their apartment door for them to get home from their night out with friends because they can’t wait to see and touch and kiss him again any longer—but that hasn’t stopped her from robbing me of my normal eccentricities and replacing them entirely.

That hasn’t stopped her from checking her phone a million times to see the time—10:04 p.m.—or the butterflies from flapping all throughout her stomach either.

I’m not someone I recognize, but for the first time since the start of this transformation, I’m starting to be okay with it.

I peek under my trench coat again at the lacy bra and underwear I went out and bought from a boutique after I left dinner with Ginger, and I roll my eyes.

I have a feeling if I entered the current data—that I’m wearing sexy undergarments for Blake and waiting outside his apartment for him to come home—into the app I created, AI would spit out some conclusion that lands on an incredibly high percentage in his favor.

I check my phone again, reading the messages Blake and I exchanged about thirty minutes ago for the nineteenth time.

Blake Boden: Night’s coming to a close for me, Smart Girl. Should I head your way?

Me: No. It’s late. You should go home.

Blake Boden: You’re kidding me, right? I’m coming to you.

Me: Go home, Blake.

Blake Boden: Wait…is there a reason I should go home?

Blake Boden: Lexi????

Me: Blake. Seriously. GO HOME. TO YOUR APARTMENT. RIGHT NOW.

Blake Boden: OH SHIT. I’ll head right home, then. Promise. ;) ;)

I click the power button on my phone to put it to sleep once again and tuck it away, resting my head on the wall beside Blake’s door.

I haven’t been this mixed-up waiting for someone to be somewhere, I think, ever. Maybe on the first night of hosting Double C when I was waiting on things to get delivered to the secret location, but even that’s a stretch.

This is anticipation personified.

The stairwell door opens with a bang, and I glance out and around the edge of my hood to check. What I’m not expecting is to be scooped up before I can get a look, Blake having literally sprinted the length of the hall to get there before I could.

“Oh my God,” I yelp, my whole body panicking at the rush of cool air on my very exposed parts underneath my coat as Blake picks me up, opens his door, and sets me inside, all in one smooth motion.

The door closes behind us with a thud, and Blake pushes me backward until my butt hits the couch, following me down.

---