Page 77 of Only in Your Dreams

“What are you looking for?”

She drops her wallet back into the main pocket of her bag. “Lip balm. But I think I moved this one to my car. I swear, I need to put GPS trackers into the caps or something.”

“Check the front pocket?”

“I never put them in the front pocket,” she says absently, unzipping it anyway. “Oh—yeah, there it is.” She studies the uncapped tube with a frown before swiping some on. “Actually, I came here to ask if you were craving anything. I thought I would order us a late dinner after you finish up practice as a thank you for all the breakfasts.”

I know what she’s doing. Playing a game of tit-for-tat with me, making sure she doesn’t leave herself indebted the way Connor made her feel.

It’s the last thing I want, the last thing I’d do to her. But I’ll play along if she needs me to.

“Dinner sounds great. But you didn’t have to come all the way here just for that.”

“I was going to text you, but I wasn’t sure you’d check your phone during practice.”

Her cheeks go a bit pink. Hang on a damn minute.

“I’ve answered your calls during practice,” I point out, and I can’t help the satisfied smirk taking over my face. I just can’t. “Melody Woods, you wanted to see me.”

She rolls her eyes.

“And you’re not even denying it. How many fingers?” I’m wiggling three fingers in her face.

“Don’t be smug.”

She shoves my fingers away and I’ll be motherfucking damned, but she holds on to my hand far longer than she needs to, sliding her thumb along my palm as she releases me.

Something’s happening here.

I don’t know what. I don’t even know if she means for it to be happening, but—

“Zac—come here a sec!”

I will ruin his life.

Brooks waves me over from where he and an assistant coach pore over a playbook, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this murderous in my twenty-eight years.

“I should go,” Mel starts to say, but I take her by the shoulders, holding her still.

“Don’t you dare. I’ll be right back.”

In fairness to Brooks, they couldn’t have worked through this new play without me. We huddle over the binder spit-balling strategy. At some point, I become vaguely aware of some kind of commotion in the stands behind me. But I don’t have a chance to inspect as Brooks turns to the field and starts calling out directions at the guys, and I watch them all hustle into their new positions to run the play.

It’s not perfect. We’re still horrifically underutilizing Noah. But these are desperate times and it might have to do.

I’m relieved to find Melody still standing where I left her, though she doesn’t acknowledge me when I come over. Her gaze is fixed on the stands, at the kid reading his textbook.

“Mel?”

She bends, picks up the ball I’d caught earlier, and hands it to me. “Tell Noah to cross the field at the fifty-yard line and throw this into the stands.”

“What?” I stare down at the ball.

She rips her eyes off the guy with the textbook. “Tell Noah to cross the field and throw this ball at that group of girls up there.” She jerks her head to where the players’ girlfriends are sitting.

“Why?”

“I just saw… That guy over there. In the glasses? I just saw him catch a stray pass and… trust me, Zac. You want to see this.”

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