Page 98 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“Sure, Crawford,” I say easily, keeping my voice light even though my gut twists. “I just need you to chill for five minutes because you’re two seconds away from hyperventilating. Then you can go back to ruling the world or whatever.”
She bobs her head a few times like she’s trying to convince herself she can breathe. And maybe she would have. Maybe we could’ve just walked like two normal, functioning adults figuring out their shit. But fate—or something equally sadistic—had other plans.
A cluster of teenagers spills onto the path, all hats worn backward, oversized coffees in hand, the universal uniform of chaos. One of them spots me, points, and before I can even process it, they’re jogging toward us, phones already out like paparazzi at the Oscars.
“Yo, Tater!” one of them shouts, practically vibrating out of his sneakers.
They swarm us, laughing and elbowing each other like we’re some rare sighting in the wild. One of them shoves his phone forward, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Dude, you’re a beast! Best forward in the league. When will you be back to play?” he asks super excited.
“Can we get a pic? You and your girl?” someone else asks, and I don’t have time to react to the question of when I am going back.
Scottie blinks, caught somewhere between fight, flight, and spontaneous combustion.
Before she can bolt—or pretend she’s just some stranger walking by—I throw an arm around her shoulders and pull her close. “Of course,” I say, casual as fuck, even though I feel her body tense like she’s seriously considering kneeing me in the nuts.
She’s stiff at first, her whole frame buzzing with alarm, but when the camera flashes, she softens just enough for the picture to look almost natural. Or at least like I didn’t kidnap her from a coffee shop against her will.
They thank us profusely, still chattering about uploading it, and jog off down the path, leaving a wake of chaos and caffeine behind them.
Scottie lets out a strangled sound that’s somewhere between a squeak and a death threat.
“You okay?” I ask, grinning because, honestly, she’s adorable when she’s plotting my murder.
“I . . . I’m going to kill you,” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Technically, they ambushed us,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock innocence. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”
Scottie glares at me, all fire and disbelief, and I grin like the absolute menace I am.
“You’re famous too,” I point out. “Why is this freaking you out?”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “fuck off,” but she keeps walking, not bolting, not putting more distance between us. Honestly? That’s a win. Maybe even a fucking miracle.
We pass a pretzel stand, and I stop without thinking, digging into my wallet. I buy one, tear it clean in half, and offer her a piece without saying a word. She eyes it like it’s a trick, then snatches it from my hand. Grudgingly. Eats it the same way—grudging little bites like she’s daring me to comment.
Progress. Actual, edible progress.
“You know,” I say around a mouthful of doughy saltiness, “for someone who insists this is nothing, you’re doing a terrible job not acting like my girlfriend.”
She chokes mid-bite, coughing dramatically. I pat her back, laughing because I’m an asshole and because watching her flail a little is basically foreplay at this point.
“Kidding,” I say, grinning. “Mostly.”
She swallows, levels me with another glare that could strip paint off walls. “It’s not funny. Not at all. You and I?—”
“We could be great,” I say, cutting her off without thinking because it’s true, and it’s hanging there between us already anyway, thick and heavy in the air.
Scottie doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The way she looks at me—like I’m dangerous, stupid, and a little bit necessary—says enough.
By the time we hit the Great Lawn, she’s breathing easier. Her shoulders aren’t so rigid. She even laughs under her breath when we pass a couple arguing over how to assemble a kite and points out a guy trying—and failing—to jog while three Chihuahuas tangle themselves around his legs like they’re reenacting a hostage negotiation.
She’s still cautious. Still braced for impact. But there’s color blooming high in her cheeks now and light in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning.
We find a shady patch under a massive oak and drop onto the grass. Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her radiating into my side. We watch the world go by—kids chasing soccer balls, couples strolling hand-in-hand, dogs weaving through the chaos like tiny drunk soldiers on a mission. It’s stupidly normal. Painfully perfect.
“I miss this,” she says after a while, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard. “Having time to do . . . normal stuff.”
