Page 81 of Only in Your Dreams

Zac shrugs, going for another bite of donut. “Easy. Tell them it’ll be at the gate.”

He’s left a fleck of frosting on his lip, and smiles when I reach across the counter to wipe it off, suck it off my finger. Wynn shoots us a curious look before collecting his drinks and running it to his table.

Shit. The last thing I need is Mr. Town Gossip on our trail.

Hastily, I grab a tray of empty glass dispensers and heave a large tub of syrup on the counter in a makeshift barrier between me and Zac.

“How’s Baby Clark Kent practicing?” I ask, pumping syrup into a dispenser.

Zac picks up a bar rag and reaches to wipe a streak of syrup dripping down the side of the dispenser. “He isn’t bad. Well, no—he’s good. Lots of natural talent. But it’s pretty damn obvious to anyone watching that he’s never played with this team. It’s disjointed as hell right now, Mel. Doesn’t help that I’m only being given three more games to prove my worth, or I’m out.”

I pull a face, moving to a fresh dispenser. “They have to know it’ll take some time to get the chemistry right, though? How can they expect you to slot in a new player and see magic right away?”

“Doesn’t matter. The media doesn’t care. The fans are impatient. Viewership is down, which means sponsorships are down. It’s becoming harder to scout for the school because no one wants to play for perennial losers.” He sighs, fiddling with the bar rag. “I’m the perfect scapegoat. I was never supposed to have this job in the first place—it was supposed to be interim until it wasn’t. I’m young, inexperienced as a head coach. I inherited the other guy’s insane salary, which I haven’t even come close to earning. I’m expensive and, so far, all I’ve delivered are losses on the season. I’m royally fucked.”

Every bit of his body carries signs of defeat. The deflated shoulders. The tilt of his head, the curve of his eyebrows. My chest pinches. It’s so rare to see Zac without his signature swagger. The confidence that’s so infectious he deals it out like candy to everyone around him, making them feel as capable and valuable as they are through his eyes.

It’s how he makes me feel, anyway.

Also, screw his boss. It sounds like Zac was set up to fail from the start, and it makes me absurdly storm-the-stadium-with-a-pitchfork-and-torch kind of angry on his behalf.

“You’ve always been a football whiz, Zac. I can’t see this going any different.”

“Good players don’t always make good coaches. And head coach… it’s a completely different skillset.” He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, scanning the diner over his shoulder like he’s expecting an angry mob to ambush him any moment. “I’m responsible for the success of an entire staff. I need to be able to take things in stride when they go wrong—”

“Like you did when we got stranded at camp?”

His brows pull together. “To motivate the team when the odds feel stacked against them—”

“Like you did when you had me write my playbook?” I raise my eyebrows when Zac feeds me a funny look. “By all means, keep pointing out the ways you think you fall short. I could do this all day.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “When’d you become such an optimist, Clover?”

“Since I’ve seen firsthand how much your team respects you. And I’m willing to bet they’ll work just as hard for you and your job, as you will for them and their career prospects. Keep the faith, Porter. That championship is in the bag, and I, for one, cannot wait to celebrate.”

It’s a proper smile he gives me now. “Championship, huh?”

“We’re aiming high this year, you and me.” I wipe my fingers on my apron, hold a fist between us, pinky in the air. “If I have to find a new career that makes me happy, then you have to start believing you’ll win that trophy. Deal?”

“Deal.” We’re both leaning so far over the counter separating us that he barely has to reach to twist his pinky around mine. His eyes go soft the second we connect. “Melody, I’m dying to kiss you.”

He looks like he means it, too. My gaze settles on his mouth.

Why’d he have to be such a phenomenal kisser? I’m not itching to dial up the emotional dependence between us—no more than I already feel building despite my best defenses, anyway—but it’s impossible to forget how weightless I felt kissing him back in the woods.

Our pinkies are still connected, sitting between us on the counter now. Zac brushes his thumb over my knuckles, just once, and my entire body thrums pleasantly.

The diner door chimes open.

“Shit.” Our fingers disentangle, and I drop my gaze to the syrup dispenser in front of me when I spot a familiar blue Hawaiian shirt entering the restaurant.

Behind Zac, Parker strolls across the diner and I really should have known he’d be here this morning given the maddening lack of a coffee machine in his apartment.

“Maybe you should…” I nod over Zac’s shoulder.

But Zac only takes an unperturbed sip of coffee at the sight of my brother, who stops to chat up a table of college girls on his way to the counter.

“I’m not running away from your brother, Mel.”

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