Page 32 of The Wildcat

Our favorite blonde bombshell was seen walking hand in hand with the most elusive player on the Philadelphia Revolution. The question is, is he a player or aplayer?

Only time and this reporter will tell.

#KroydonKronicles #Blondebombshell #Newcouplealert

EVERLY

There’s a knock at my bedroom door later that night before Gracie pads in. Even with her hair thrown up haphazardly on top of her head and an old, baby-pink t-shirt and sleep shorts on, my sister manages to somehow look perfectly put together as she sits down on the bed next to me.

I add a little more detail to the sketch I’m working on before I show it to her and preen when she breathes out a pretty, dreamy sigh. “I love this one, Evie.”

“That’s because it’s white and blush. It’s basically half your wardrobe, just fancier.”

“I can’t help it that my signature colors are blush and bashful.”

I add a touch more pink to the sash of the dress. “You always did loveSteel Magnolias.”

“Still do,” She tugs a pillow to her lap and runs her fingers through the pink fringe.

Okay, so maybe she’s not the only one who likes that color.

“You know she died, right?” We’ve had this exact conversation a million times throughout our lives.

“Don’t remind me.” She leans back against my headboard and sighs again. “Are you going to design my wedding dress for me, one day, sissy?”

“Like I’d trust anyone else with that.” I link my pinky to hers, then lean my head on her shoulder. “Got the guy picked out yet?”

“Not yet... Just the dress. How about you?”

“Hardly,” I laugh, trying to sound unaffected.

“Sooo . . . how was your date?”

I close my eyes, and my skin prickles with my memory of Cross’s lips on mine. “Awful,” I grumble. “But mainly because it was perfect.”

“Then why don’t you sound happier?” She yanks her finger down, tugging on mine.

“Because I didn’t want him to be perfect, Grace. He took me to the Fall Festival.”

“The ass,” she gasps ridiculously overdramatic. But she’s my ride or die to the end.

“You don’t understand... He opened doors... and held my hand.” I sit up and toss my sketchbook on my nightstand, then turn toward her and shove my glasses up on my head. “He even walked on the outside.”

Grace’s eyes double in size. “Like the curbside? Like Dad?”

I nod. “Yup. I’ve never had a guy do that.”

“Nope. Me either,” she agrees. “Rat bastard.”

“What are you doing?” I groan, a little frustrated that she thinks this is funny.

Grace crosses her fuzzy sock-covered feet at the ankle, today’s socks are white with bright pink hearts because well, they basically sum up my sister’s entire persona perfectly. “I’m trying to agree with you on why your date was awful. I mean, the man had manners. He held your hand, opened doors, and put you on the inside. Something, I might add, Mom swears only the good ones do. Dad says anyone who doesn’t is a...pussynot aman.” She whispers the word because as much as Grace doesn’t mind cursing, and as far from a prude as she is, crass words still somehow drive her crazy.

“Don’t make fun of me,” I pout. And yes, I realize I sound like a whiney bitch, and I am legitimately pouting. “I really don’t want to like him, and he’s making that really hard for me. He’s serious. A relationship guy. A dad. And let’s not forget, he’s a professional hockey player.”

Gracie carefully collects the colored pencils that are strewn all over my duvet and places them on the nightstand on her side of the bed, then pulls her knees up against her chest and angles herself toward me. “Break this down for me. I mean, I could totally see a single dad being a serious guy. It makes sense. And if it’s the kids that are making you think this might not be for you, you’re 100 percent allowed to feel that way.” She bends her head so she can see my eyes when I refuse to look at her. “But I don’t think that’s the real problem.”

“We’re twenty-three, Gracie . . .”

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