Page 26 of Faking It with the Forward

“You all look a lot alike.”

She snorts. “Don’t tell Ruby that.”

“Why?” I study the women. The genes are strong. Ruby’s face is a little narrower and her hair a shade lighter, but the eyes and nose are the same. Twyler’s got a rounder face, thick, dark lashes, and pretty, soft, pink lips.

“Because she thinks she’s better than me. Better looking. Better in school. Better daughter. Okay,” she says, finally stopping to look at me. Her eyes start at my head and slowly move down before pinging back up. “Ready to get this over with?”

I laugh.

“What?”

“I’ve never been out with a girl so ready for our date to be over with.” I open the door, while she puts on her coat. “Well, unless it was just to get to the stuff at the end of the date.”

Her gaze dropping back to the ground, she says, “You say stuff like that just to make me blush, don’t you?”

“Yep.” I can’t deny that it’s impossible not to mess with her when she gets so flustered, but I know if I’m going to get her to go through with the rest of the night, I need to ease off. “You okay with walking? I can call a ride if you’d rather.”

“Walking’s good,” she says, and we head down the sidewalk toward the main road that cuts through campus and leads to The Strip, the hub of Wittmore’s nightlife.

“If we’re going to pull this off,” I say, falling in step, “we should probably learn a little about each other.”

“What do you want to know?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Where are you from?”

“Tennessee.”

That comes as a surprise, although I’d noted the hint of a southern twang in her accent. “Really? How did you end up here?”

“I was ready for something new, I guess. My aunt and uncle live a couple of miles from campus, and we would visit in the summers. I always thought the campus was pretty and I could see myself here. When I saw they had Kinesiology as a major, it seemed like a perfect fit.”

“So how did you get into sports training, anyway?”

She tells me about the program at her high school and how her coach was more like a mentor. He got her interested in pursuing it as a degree. “It’s hard to explain, but I like being part of the game experience, you know, feeling the energy, but sitting with the crowd always felt a little boring and overwhelming. I’d rather be busy, and this way I get to do both.”

“That makes sense.” I press the crosswalk button. The row of bars and restaurants start a block down and the glow of lights travels to us. “But why hockey?”

She laughs. “Oh, that was kind of a fluke. I wanted to be assigned to the basketball team, but when I turned in my internship application my advisor pushed me to take the open position for the hockey team. Truthfully, I think they were looking to diversify the staff—since you guys have a whole bro-culture going on. I guess they figured I may be the only female that could handle working with a bunch of alpha-male jocks.”

“They weren’t wrong.” We cross the street and I shift to the side nearest the road. Up ahead groups of students are stepping into the various establishments. The neon sign for the Badger Den shines in the dark. “The guys like you. I know a couple would rather have you do their wraps than Green.”

“Why? Because they don’t want to look at his mustache?”

“I’d like to say no, but… maybe?” Coach Green has a signature, thick bushy-mustache, that is his pride and joy. I laugh. “Fuck, that thing is a beast, right?”

“Yes! It’s like an animal glued to his upper lip,” she agrees. “I don’t know how his wife stands it. I’d make my husband shave it off or he couldn’t come in the house.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is with you? Your way or the highway?”

She shrugs, but doesn’t hide her smile. “I’m just saying, a little scruff is okay, sexy even, but a weasel on your face is a hard no.”

By the time we approach the door she’s loosened up a little. “Hey.” I tug on her jacket, slowing her down. I can tell through the window it’s already packed. I like this. Talking to Twyler. Learning about her. Once we get inside it’ll be loud and crowded. “You didn’t ask me any questions.”

“Oh.” Her eyebrow lifts. “I guess I don’t need to.”

“Really?” Is she that disinterested? “Why?”

“Because, Cain,” she pauses, her hand wrapped about the bar door, “there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.”

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