I gesture to the full-size mattress. “There’s plenty of room. Hop up.”
“Do you really expect me to jump into my bed with you?”
“What?” I pretend to clutch imaginary pearls. “Heavens to Betsy, no. I’m not a harlot. Wash your mouth. I’m talking above the covers. Nice try though, lady. Nice fucking try.”
She gives me a dramatic eye-roll but doesn’t budge, causing me to let out a long sigh.
“Mills, stop being so stubborn and come sit down. I’m not going to bite.”
She gives me a brief once-over. I see the moment she capitulates, and she finally climbs into bed, leaving at least a foot between us. Wow, I’m not sure she could be more obvious if she was wearing a porcupine-shielded costume with sign saying don’t touch me.
Noted . . . no touching. I learned that from our experience in the dining hall.
This girl, seriously, she’s confusing as fuck, because I swear, there are times where I catch her looking at me, when I see interest in her eyes, and then there are days like today where she’s so damn skittish, I can barely get close to her.
Am I crazy for even attempting to get close to this girl? Maybe. I’m sure there are guys who wouldn’t even give her a second thought at this point, but I’m not one of those guys. Milly’s interesting, different, and possibly dangerous to my heart. I can feel it deep down. She was brought into my life for a reason and not just to help my swing, but something so much more than that. My dad showed me how to respect women. He could have dated when I was growing up, but I knew he still loved Mom so much. He’s a handsome and kind man, so he should have found someone easily, but he held on to my mom for so long. It taught me that when you find something you feel so connected to, you don’t let it go. He taught me perseverance.
So, here I am, trying to decipher our something else. I need to convince her what our something else is. Hands rested in her lap, her shoulders tense, and her gaze forward, she stares at the little TV in front of us where reruns of Friends play. It’s kismet; we both like Friends.
Then again, who doesn’t like Friends?
Wanting her to loosen up, I say, “So, big Cory Potter fan, huh?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.
Ohhh-kay.
Sometimes I can’t get this girl to stop talking, and other times it’s like I need a tire jack to crank her mouth open to force her to speak to me. Huh, that’s not such a bad idea. Now where can I find a tire jack? *Mentally taps chin*
Maybe I’ll take a different approach, one that I’m sure will strike a chord.
“Did you catch the Storm game the other night? Potter couldn’t hit a high fastball if it was soft tossed to him.”
Her head whips to mine as if I insulted her, not Potter. “He was having an off night.” Her defense is kind of comical. Yup, a true superfan. I wonder if she has a crush on him. He is the heartthrob of the Storm . . . so I’ve heard.
“It’s like every three games he has an off night. He’s good and then he completely bombs. I have no idea how he got such a baller contract when his play isn’t steady. It’s so up and down. Don’t you think?” I ask, laying out the bait.
I don’t necessarily agree with what I just said, but she turns toward me on the bed, a pinch to her brow and a fearsome fire simmering beneath. Yup, she’s a superfan all right.
“His play isn’t steady? Are you serious? He’s the second-best first baseman in the American league, only falling short to Trevor Alpine, who is a phenom with a glove in his hand. Cory leads his team in batting average, slugging percentage, RBIs, and he even has a few stolen bases despite his larger stature. He’s been a starter in the All-Star Game for the past three years, and is easily a fan favorite. He has a baller contract because he’s amazing on and off the field.”
Yup, the fire is raging.
“Not to mention,” she continues, barely getting a breath in, “he does so much outside of the stadium. He volunteers, helps