Page 22 of Afterglow
Fletcher blushes so fiercely that it makes my heart skip a beat. The crimson spans all his exposed alabaster skin, drowning his freckles down his arms to the knuckles around the steering wheel. My stomach flips back and forth like a floor gymnast. A smile stretches my face so wide my cheeks hurt. Dreams do come true. I could get used to seeing him like this.
“S-sure.”
“So, my friend. You’re a shy bookworm who plays hockey professionally?” I tease.
“I…guess.” He’s still stumbling over words. I might be addicted to making him blush.
“Is reading your only hobby? Or are you like me, a hobby hoarder?”
His shoulders round into a shrug. “Hockey takes up most of my time. When we’re not practicing or playing, we’re on the road.”
“No other hobbies? Really? What do you guys do during long trips?”
“Catch up on sleep. Watch movies. Sometimes we play card games.”
“Fun! You mean like Uno?” I ask, though I already have insider info.
I want to, have to,needto make Fletcher Donovan smile. And maybe blush some more.
God forbid a girl has a new hobby. Add it to the list, the endless lists with tasks that never get completed, or if they do, are completed too late and it doesn’t matter anyway. The domino effect of failure never fails.
“Occasionally. We usually stick to Phase 10, Pokémon?—”
Gabe and Indi were right. These guys are giant children with geeky pastimes.
“Sometimes pinochle?—”
“Pinochle?” I choke on a laugh. “What are you guys, eighty?”
Fletcher’s mouth purses. He’s really trying not to smile.
“If you must know, my favorite is poker. Texas Hold ‘Em. But the guys aren’t fans.”
I’ve made him blush. I’ve made him smile, kinda. Now I wonder if I can get him to compliment himself.
“No? Why not?” That’s good, Bea. Pretend you don’t know about his poker skills.
“‘Cause when they play, they bet. And when I play, they lose.” A faint smile appears, changing the pattern of those pretty freckles.
Victory!
His smile stretches with mischief. “And men who play sports for a living are the biggest sore losers.”
“Daaaaang, Fletcher,” I sing-song. “How’d you get so good?”
The question hits a nerve, because he goes somber. “My dad plays.” We stop at a red light, the right turn signal ticking through the silence. “It’s probably the only thing he taught me.” The hurt in the low timbre of his voice bristles my skin. A green glow tints his silhouette, and we drive forward.
“If it makes you feel any better, my parents are jerks, too.” They hate me so much that they had to put seven thousand miles between us. I’ve made this about me again. How selfish. “Anywayyyyy,” I sing, “I’ve never played. You’ll have to teach me when we get back to your place.”
“Ourplace.”
My lips pull into a thankful smile, averting my eyes out of the window to hide my excitement. Luckily, he can’t hear how fast my heart’s beating.
This is the craziest turn of events.
I suck in a breath. “I can’t believe I thought you resented me because you’re shy.” He blushes. Again. I swoon internally. I lick the tip of an imaginary pen and pretend to write on my palm like a notepad. “A shy,nerdyhockey player who reads and is a poker fiend. Family dynamics are complicated. Anything else I need to know,roomie?”
“I’m a simple man,” he replies with an enigmatic smile as we turn into the apartment building’s parkade.
