Page 66 of Shutout
She nods as if all of this was brand new information. “Suena muy interesante. ¿Cuál es la parte que más te emociona de convertirte en un jugador profesional?” She trips on the last few words, just like I want to trip that dipshit over there who’s salivating over Liv’s ass.
Yeah, she has a superb ass. But it’s not his to look at.
Brain off, autopilot on, I tell myself.
Releasing a deep breath, I say, “Lo que más me emociona es formar parte del mismo equipo con mi amiga, Olivia.”
Very rehearsed, the other group mate asks, “¿Cómo es eso posible?”
“Es que mi sueño es ser la nutricionista de su equipo,” says Liv. Her voice transforms when she speaks the language of her parents. It seems a little deeper, smoother. I wonder what it sounds like when she uses it to say dirty things, and not lies about how she dreams about being my team’s nutritionist just so we could have a conversation pinging back and forth among the four of us.
Damn it, if I catch one more horny animal looking at her like she’s meat, I’m going to flip a switch back on.
It was so much easier back in high school. None of the guys dared to even look her way because they knew I was her best friend. If they tried anything funny, I had the body mass and disposition to turn their faces into pulp. But here? I have no stake on her. I’m just a classmate. And Trent’s little comment was kind of true. I have to stay in perfect behavior so I don’t jeopardize my path to the pros. Being drafted doesn’t mean I’m set.
“Thank you, group three,” the lecturer says once we’ve finally finished the whole spiel. “Up next?—”
I stop listening after that. I blame my turned off brain for putting my hand on the small of Liv’s back as we make our way back up to our seats. She gives me a puzzled look over her shoulder, but I don’t drop my hand until we sit back down. The biggest offender, all the way down at the front, makes sure to give me a glare loaded with screw-you energy before turning back out front.
“It’s over.” Liv sighs and sags on her seat.
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You were amazing, Miss Spanish-is-actually-not-my-mother-tongue.”
She snorts and whispers back. “Thanks, Mr. I-studied-more-Spanish-than-the-one-who-is-supposed-to-be-a-native-speaker.”
“Wow, I have such a long name.”
The upwards curl of her lips wedges itself right in between my ribs, until it finds the fleshy part of my heart that I normally only exercise on the ice.
I finally understand how I’ve been lying to myself all along. My heart was only dormant because I just didn’t understand who it belonged to.
Now, how do I tell her this in a way that won’t send her packing?
I drum my fingers on the table as I watch her profile. Unlike me, she’s trying to pay attention to the next group. They could be talking about how their dream is turning lead into gold and leaves into money, but I couldn’t care less. I’m trying to determine if Liv’s lips are a few shades darker because she bit them or because of lipstick.
“Did you put on makeup today?” I ask her with my lowest voice. She’s right beside me, our legs flush together, so she hears me clearly.
She turns to me. “Yeah. Why?”
“Lipstick too?”
“Yes?”
Ah, so that means I can’t kiss her right this second. Even though that’s too bad, because her lips look so thick and soft.
“Hmm, looks good. But you always look good anyway.”
My attention shifts down as her throat works with a heavy swallow. Liv turns back to the front. “Thanks, I think so too,” she returns all sassy.
I bite my lip. Brain’s still off, though, because I twist myself enough to release my arm and put it on the back of her seat. Now even closer, I whisper into her ear, “I’m curious aboutsomething. Are you the kind of girl who puts on her makeup before or after her clothes?”
Her breath hitches. The skin of her neck breaks into goosebumps right where my breath hits it.
Slowly, Liv turns to me. Our noses brush and now I’m the one catching my breath as she lifts her eyes to mine. “Before,” is all she says. Then she leans all the way away, resting her elbows on the table to prop herself forward like she’s riveted by the presentation.
My jaw hangs.
It’s been almost three weeks since the accident at the Bulldog’s game, which means I have a scab that now allows me to have facial expressions again. Whole lot of good it’s doing to me, when now I can picture Liv in her underwear as she leans closer to a mirror to put on her makeup. Or naked. What if that’s how she does it?
