Page 13 of How to Score Off Field

Going for it has never been my style because NEWS FLASH: I have no style.

I have no game.

“At no point was I ever going to go for it.” Not with Drew or anyone.

“See, Tess, this is why you’re still single.” She sips more wine. Gulps it actually because she already needs a refill.

I pour her more to busy myself, topping my glass as well.

“That is literally not the reason I’m single.”

The truth is, I have no idea why I’m single. I mean—fine, I do know. I’m not aggressive enough. Passive, if you will. Never know when a guy is flirting, cannot take a hint unless someone has flat out said the words “Tess will you go out with me?”

Which they haven’t.

Not in ages.

The closest I’ve gotten are a few drunken and the infrequent slobbery, “You are so hot, wanna come back to my place?”

Some girls might find any come-on flattering, but I am not most girls.

Um, sir, if your place is a tiny dorm room or a dirty apartment that you share with three of your fraternity brothers, the answer is no.

Hard pass.

“Then why are you single? And don’t act like we haven’t had this conversation a dozen times before.”

I roll my eyes and ignore her question. “Why do you act like it’s your job to matchmake for me? I’m perfectly content the way I am.”

Miranda snorts. “Then why was it so awkward for you to pick up Drew Colter from the airport and make small talk like a normal person?”

Because.

“I don’t even know him. I was basically a glorified Uber driver.”

“You don’t think he appreciated his best friend’s little sister picking him up? Please. I’m sure he would have been glad to flirt.”

“The reason we didn’t have Sissy Lancaster pick him up was so he wouldn’t be trapped in a car with a drooling female fan.”

“Oh.” She sits back on the barstool, understanding marring her brow. “So that’s the reason you didn’t flirt? You didn’t want to be a simpering female fan? That makes more sense.”

“No, that’s not…” Ugh. “I give up.”

“Yes, it seems like it.”

I give her a blank stare. “Easy for you to say since datin’ and flirtin’ come naturally.” Miranda is a hot toddy. Guys love her.

“You don’t think I have to work at it?”

“Um, no, you don’t work at it.”

She preens, taking that as a compliment. “Oh my god, thank you.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she says, “It takes a lot of work to make it look like I put in zero effort, but trust me, this is exhausting.”

I drink my wine, thinking. “Are you tellin’ Zero to drop by tomorrow?”

Zero is her boyfriend, and he’s exactly how you’d imagine a guy named Zero to be: neck tattoo. Piercings. Black, inky hair. He plays hockey for the university and will probably play pro if he can stay out of trouble on social media.

Basically, Dave Navarro, if you even know who that is, but cooler. He’s also the last person you would expect to walk into a dive like Boot Scoot Boogie, but that’s the thing about Miranda and Zero: they give zero fucks.

---