We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,32

head shakes. “Nah. Too much on my mind.”

“The scouts?”

“Among other things.”

I recognize the strain in his voice. It’s more than just our fight. Pressure is mounting for him to make a decision regarding college baseball. Most athletes have long-since signed their letters of intent, locking in their offers as soon as they received them. But Archer is leveraging his senior season in his favor, letting the best universities in the country woo him until the final hour with incentives — both financial and educational.

Last I checked, he’d narrowed his many options down to Florida State, Vanderbilt, Ole Miss, and (my personal pick) Bryant University. As his sole New England choice — and, coincidentally, a mere thirty minute drive from my dorm at Brown — I’ve been not so subtly rooting for him to join the Bulldogs in Rhode Island since the day they made their first overtures.

“Have you narrowed your list down further?”

“Not yet.”

“Deadline is coming up,” I tell him needlessly.

“Mhm.”

Everyone expects him to announce his decision at the end of the season — preferably, after he’s led Exeter to a State Championship title. I can practically see it now: him holding a gold trophy aloft in front of a swarm of press, grinning as he shakes his new coach’s hand. With just two regular games left before playoffs, that gives him mere weeks to make the biggest commitment of his life.

“It’s a big decision. It’s normal to be nervous. But you’ll make the right one,” I assure him. “I know you will.”

His voice grows achingly soft. “Sometimes… it feels like I’ve been handed this amazing stroke of luck and at any minute, it’s all just going to evaporate from my grip.”

“It’s not luck, though. It’s training. It’s years of hard work.” I sigh. “How many times did I drive to the field and drag your ass home after a full day of practice? How many mornings did you go for a six-mile run, even in the rain and snow and sleet? How many nights did you make me watch YouTube clips with you, studying footage and learning technique?” My lips twist. “You aren’t lucky, Archer. You’re talented.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. My body rises and falls each time he takes a breath, a boat upon a sea of rolling swells. When he speaks again, his voice is low. Full of gravel.

“Right now, I feel pretty lucky.”

I suck in a sharp breath. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s talking about something besides baseball. My heart, only moments ago in danger of combusting from terror, is now in danger of combusting from another emotion entirely.

Not a platonic one.

Tension mounts in the air around us, almost tangible. I wonder if he feels it, too. If he feels anything at all besides innocent friendship. I’m not sure what possibility scares me more — that he’s totally oblivious to this state of emotional suspense… or that he does feel it, but would rather pretend otherwise.

“Lucky?” I say lightly, forcing a laugh. “Even though I nearly flattened you?”

His arms tighten around my back as he snorts. “For such a small person, you land with a surprising amount of force.”

“Hey! Are you calling me fat?”

“No. Just… dense.”

“I am not dense!” I scowl. “You’re dense — in the head!”

His chuckles vibrate my entire body. “Good comeback, Jo.”

“Oh, shut up,” I hiss, even though I’m fighting off chuckles of my own. “I guess in the future, we need to sort out custody of the rafters. Write out a contractual agreement for who gets to use them whenever we have a stupid fight. How ‘bout I get to sulk up here on weeknights, you get weekends? We can rotate major holidays. Do you want Easter or Christmas?”

I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. Beneath me, his body goes stiff — as though he’s just remembered to be angry. A second later, his arms unlock from the cage they’d created around me and drop to his sides.

Ceasefire, over.

I instantly want to snatch back my stupid words. To rewind ten seconds to the quiet sanctuary of his embrace, when things actually felt normal between us for the first time in far too long.

From the unyielding set of his muscles, I know there’s no point in even trying. Biting my tongue, I force myself to roll off him. To sit up. To reach into the darkness, seeking out the familiar metal edges of the camping lantern.

I turn the knob and dull light suffuses the loft. I blink at the sudden