Page 62 of Never Date A Player
John Sallee. “Your dad was very nice when I came in and asked about the mudder.”
Lewis takes a gulp of the water the waitress set in front of him. “We’re sort of polar opposites.” I raise my brow. “My dad’s a bit of a talker.” And Lewis isn’t, though I get the impression he’s shared more with me than he does with most people. “Hang out with him for thirty minutes and you’ll know his life story.” He looks up, as if realizing how that sounded. “Not that that’s a bad thing. He’s a great dad.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I never knew my father, so I don’t know what I’m missing.”
A beat passes, then, “Why don’t you know your dad, Gen?” I squirm in my seat. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to pry. I just—I want to know you.”
I shouldn’t tell him. He’ll think the worst of me.
“I don’t know my dad,” I say, “because I don’t know who he is.” I wait and let that sink in. “My mom’s had… she’s had—boyfriends. Lots of them. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods slowly.
I don’t know why I’m telling him something I’ve never told another soul. A part of me wants him to know. Another part wants to push him away before I really get hurt.
I glance at the table and rub a score in the top. “I’m pretty sure my mom lives off her boyfriends,” I say quietly. I tuck a lock of dark hair behind my ear, my hand falling restlessly to the table.
Several seconds of silence pass. I should never have told him. This is it, the moment he ditches me. Panic grips my chest as I realize belatedly that I’m already too invested. If he leaves me, it’s going to hurt like nothing I’ve experienced.
Lewis reaches across the table and squeezes my fingers. “I’m glad your parents got together, or we wouldn’t be here.” He grins. It’s saucy and sexy, and my mouth spreads into a wide smile.
My dirty secret is no longer a secret. There’s no judgment from Lewis, only support, and suddenly, I feel lighter and happier than I ever have before.
I’ve never shared my theory about my mom with anyone, including Cali, and telling Lewis gives me confidence. Not to go out and shout it to the world or anything, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that omitting information from best friends doesn’t end well. I need to share this with Cali too.
We don’t talk about my dad, or my mom, or Lewis’s parents. Our food arrives and I’m too busy shoveling in nachos and leaning across the table to bite into Lewis’s coronary waiting to happen, also known as The Destroyer—a burger so massive and dripping with grease that I literally fear for his life, enough to help him out with the beast.
Lewis steals a chip attached to two others dripping with cheese and steak from my plate. “What do you think about playing a game of pool?”
I eye the chip drifting into his mouth. “Hey, I had my eye on that one.”
He grins.
I look back. The pool table is empty. I drum my fingers. This is it. My chance to kick some Lewis ass. All week—well, really for like the last couple of weeks, but who’s counting?—Lewis has battered my athletic mojo with his mudder boot camp. But give me a stick and a ball and I will crush him.
“Yeah, sure,” I say casually. No need to alert him to the ass-whooping I’m about to inflict.
We grab my water and the root beer float he ordered after his heart attack burger—apparently, his stomach is a bottomless pit, which I admire greatly—and select cue sticks from the wall.
Lewis racks up. “Ladies first.”
I’m trying to keep the smug grin off my face, but it’s a challenge. He deserves so much crap for what he’s put me through, but I don’t want to out myself yet. “Why, thank you.”
I casually survey the balls and screw up my face as if uncertain.
Leaning over, I aim, draw my arm back, and strike the cue ball and V at the end of the table with a loud crack. Two stripes and one solid go in.
Lewis scrubs his chin. “Played before?”
“Maybe.” I grin, because I can’t hold it in any longer. I don’t plan on giving him a chance to shoot.
I sink three more stripes in corner pockets and prep for my fourth, when I sense Lewis behind me. Trying to distract me?
Nice try, but all that crazy boot-camping trained me to focus. I slide my cue stick back, focus on the triangle of my cue ball, the side bar, and the right corner pocket and… smell him.
“Good luck,” he whispers in my ear, a hairsbreadth away.
I’ve already begun thrusting my stick forward and I can’t stop now, but the angle is off. I strike the cue ball wrong, which chips off the right of the purple 12-ball, which then ricochets into no man’s land, the cue ball sinking in the corner pocket.
