Page 5 of The Player Penalty
I part my hair and braid on one side before starting on the other.
“This is the museum work area,” I say, knowing it sounds lame.
Julian indicates my two loose braids. “I like that hairstyle on you. It’s very-”
“Childish?” Someone told me that once.
He frowns, causing his features to look uncharacteristically stern. “The word I had in mind was flattering.”
I don’t know the proper response. “I adopted them because they help me stop fiddling with my hair. It’s neater that way.”
“Like a nervous tic?”
“Sort of like that.” I put my fingers on my head like matching insect antennas. “You should do the same. It might help.”
“Are you implying I look bad?”
“It wasn’t meant to be subtle.”
“It was a late night, and time this morning ran short.”
Julian’s clothes are always perfect; it’s the rest of him that changes. Some mornings, he arrives freshly shaved, with a faint scent of cologne hovering around him. On others, he arrives scruffy-faced and in the previous day’s clothes. He’s earned my dad’s Lothario nickname.
“I hope you at least thanked her before walking out.”
Julian’s brows draw up with surprise before he bites his lips. Pink splotches appear on his cheeks. “You sound a little jealous.” His word choice is harsh, but I don’t think he means it.
“Of being used for my name or having my name forgotten an hour later?” I shoot back at him. “I prefer to avoid both.” It’s an easy goal to reach. Both options theoretically require me to at least go on a date first, with a first kiss and a first…. everything else.
“Wow.” He steps closer and leans on the work table. “You’ve beaten me at Mario Kart several times now, but that right there was your revenge.” He points at me. “New topic. You ever finish that book I loaned you?”
“I tried.” His forehead lifts, arching both eyebrows again. “I did. At least five times. It was a slog.” A military fantasy is pure misery. “There was a battle in the second chapter. Paragraphs of strategy.”
“You agreed to read it.”
I’m still unsure how we came to this odd tradition of sharing. I tried one of his green smoothies, and he ate a cookie-and-cream milkshake. We declared each of them disgusting before moving on to choosing a documentary. His was depressing, while mine was excruciating. This round is books.
“I skipped to the last page, and it didn’t improve.”
“Quitter.”
“Yes.” If the braids weren’t in, I’d pull my hair again.
Julian’s eyes move, following my motions. The braids don’t always work. I pull my hands into fists under the worktable, where he can’t see.
“Boone and I are both in the playoffs,” he says. The news’ casual delivery makes the changed topic even more apparent. “Two races in so far. Are you coming to the next one?”
“I don’t even know where it is.” I shrug my shoulders. It’s difficult even to remember there is a race. Growing up, NASCAR was my father’s job and nothing else. I hid in his trailer when I was younger and stayed home alone. “What good would my presence be?”
“You could cheer me on for one.”
He’s flattering me. “I need to stay here and finish this.”
“You haven’t done anything this week. Everything is in the same place it was since I was last in here.”
“It’s complicated work. Do you know how difficult this all is?”
“I have a pretty good idea from watching you these past several weeks. You can’t stand it.” Julian’s blue eyes look up at me through thick lashes. If I were someone else, he would flirt, but this is nothing but typical interest. It’s no wonder he comes in looking so messy all the time. “You’re an intern, right? Ifthey aren’t paying you, then refuse. What’s the worst that could happen?” Julian leans back, pretending to cower in fear. “Oh, no, please don’t take the non-existent money from my pretend paycheck. Anything but that.”
