Page 2 of Sneaking Around with the Player
“Well, now I definitely have to know.”
She angles her body toward me. “He whistles.”
My brows rise. “Whistles?”
“Yeah. Like all the freaking time. At first, I thought it was sort of endearing, but it’s all the time. While he’s watching TV, walking to class, in class,during sex.”
“He whistles during sex?” I bark a laugh, then cover it with a fist.
She nods adamantly. “If he wasn’t under the water or my mouth wasn’t plastered to his, then he’s whistling. And don’t get me wrong, I love kissing, but my lips were chapped, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Under the water?”
“He’s a swimmer.”
“Ah. Did you ask him about it?”
“He was like, ?Oh, yeah. I don’t even realize I’m doing it.'” She grimaces. “And I realize it’s a stupid reason to break up with someone, but I couldn’t imagine myself getting used to it. Not with him. And I guess that’s really the thing. If it’s the right person, you shouldn’t want to choke them for their annoying, quirky habits, right?”
“Probably not.” I whistle, just to poke a little fun at her, but then laugh.
“See? It’s not annoying when you do it. Not yet at least.” She settles back into her chair.
“Not until we’re dating for a month or two and you’re looking for an excuse to break up with me?”
“You should be so lucky.” There’s a sassy glint in her eyes that makes my pulse kick up a notch.
“You’re a swimmer, too?” I ask, pointing at her sweatshirt. “Or still wearing his clothes even though you claim to be over him?”
“Iamover him, and I’m a diver.”
“A diver. No shit? Like flipping in the air from a really high diving board?” I make a circular motion with my pointer finger.
Her mouth pulls into another big smile. “Yep. It’s called a platform or a springboard.”
“That’s awesome. How’d you get into that?”
“I did swim team every summer when I was a kid, and then in middle school, I started diving.” She shrugs.
“That’s really cool.” I move my headphones down around my neck. “You’re coming from a game? Meet? Competition? I just realized I don’t know what they call swimming events.”
“Meets. And yes. We were at UT and now we’re heading home.”
“Did you win?”
“We did,” she says proudly.
“Nice. Congrats.”
“Thanks. Do you go to CU?” She points to my sweatshirt with the college name written across the front.
“Yeah.”
“Are you heading home for Thanksgiving?”
“No, I—”
I’m cut off when she ducks low in her seat and mutters, “Oh, crap.”
