“You play football?”

“I did for a bit—that’s how we discovered how fast I was. Then when I started getting scouted for track and field, I had to decide what I wanted to focus on—no one wanted me getting hurt on the soccer field, and track was the safest choice for a scholarship.”

“Was it? Couldn’t you have gotten good enough at football to get a better scholarship for that?”

“Maybe? I didn’t love it though. The rules stressed me out. I couldn’t remember half of what they were, where I was supposed to be on the field, who went where during a goal kick.”

“Makes sense.”

“Anyway, my parents didn’t have any money set aside for me. I did what I had to do, and soccer confused me, so I quit.” I drink from the water glass the bartender set down earlier. “I love playing a sport—I get to travel.”

“And see the inside of hotel rooms?”

“Mostly.” I can’t help laughing.

He’s right; we travel, but it’s not like we get to play tourist. Track and field isn’t exactly a sport that garners any type of fanfare—no one actually gives a shit about it except the athletes and coaches.

It brings in almost no money.

We have almost no spectators.

It’s a sport that comes and goes with little or no notice.

Similar to rugby, I imagine—such an obscure sport to play.

“How long have you played rugby?”

Ashley makes a humming sound deep in his throat. “Since I was in secondary school. Rugby and lacrosse.” He grins, flashing the gap. “How predictably British.”

“It’s fascinating. I love it.” I wink at him and wish I could take it back, because his eyes widen and he looks away—as if he’s not sure what to make of my flirty little gesture.

That makes two of us…

It’s awkward for a bit as I rack my brain for something else to say, or talk about, or ask him.

“Do you have any pets?”

There. That’s a good one.

“Mum had a few yippy dogs for a time. They’re dead though.”

Um. Okayyy.

“I didn’t have to put up with them since I was at school, although one of them—Buttercup, a Pomeranian—hated me with a passion. Bit me twice, the lil’ fucker.”

I giggle. “Say Buttercup one more time.”

His brows furrow. “That’s enough out of you, missy.”

I think he’s teasing me back, but it’s hard to tell; he still looks tough. Rough around the edges with the beard stubble and black shirt and inked-up arms.

I cannot believe I walked up to this guy those weeks ago and had the nerve to ask him on a date.

The audacity!

But then again…

Look where we are now. Sharing snacks after a morning hike, living down the hall from one another.

Never in a million years.

My watch beeps and I glance down at the notification.

Ronnie: Heads-up: Coach is doing checks. She’s giving everyone 30 min.

Shit.

“We have to go,” I say with a sigh. “My coach is doing a random curfew check tonight.”

They like to make sure we’re not out partying sometimes so that we’re in top condition for the upcoming week; they’re going to want a live selfie of me at home, with the date and time stamp on it.

“Gotcha,” Ashley says, already reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Takes out a few bills and tosses them on the counter.

I reach into mine, too.

He stops me as I rise from the barstool. “I’ve got it, Georgie.”

Blushing, I give him a shy smile. This isn’t a date; he doesn’t have to be paying for my drinks. I feel like in the past few days, all I’ve done is take and take and take from him.

Imagine if I did win that trip and I could treat him to a weekend away—a weekend of fun, on me. To show him my gratitude for all the nice shit he’s done for me.

“Thank you.”

We rise, gathering our stuff, and make for the door.

Ashley did all the things tonight a guy does when he’s on a date: pays the tab, gets the door, puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me outside.

He’s not doing it on purpose; the good etiquette is deep-rooted in him.

Still, I can feel his warm hand on my spine, the polite hand that simply cannot help itself.

And tonight, when I lie in bed—after sending the coaching staff a photo of myself taking my makeup off in the bathroom, scrunching my face up and sticking out my tongue—I can’t help but wish it had been a real date, pondering what it would have been like to kiss him when we got out of the truck.

Fifteen

Ashley

My truck smells like Georgia’s perfume.

House, too.

The fridge is stocked with her food, little reminders of her presence beginning to scatter throughout the house: her shoes by the back door next to mine.

A snuggly blanket on the couch in the den.

Fuzzy socks on the floor.

A bra left in the washing machine.

The bra I didn’t need to see or touch, but it was clinging to my sweatpants when I pulled them out of the dryer—a baby blue confection like nothing I would have pictured her wearing.

Nothing chaste or prim about it.

Sheer.

Lacy.

Not sure why, but I imagined her in something white. Or gray. Sports bras as everyday attire, not that I was imagining her in underwear, but maybe bras that come in a three-pack from Costco or something—not lingerie from Victoria’s Secret.

I think about that bra later in the day when I’m rushing to a communications class. Think about it again when I’m running laps around the field for practice. Think about it in the locker room at the field house after I hop out of the shower and am lacing up my trainers.

“Ash, bro—do you have a spare set of cleats I can borrow?” A chap by the name of Will comes up behind me, already dressed. “Andy said you’re a size thirteen too, and I busted the toe out of mine tonight.”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Yeah, I have a spare pair.”

A few of them, actually; it’s no hardship to lend one out.

“Cool—can I come grab them?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll see you before practice tomorrow as I’m coming straight from a doctor’s appointment—having my balls checked out.”

I stare at him blankly. “You are not.”

Will laughs. “No, I’m not—I’m getting tested for STDs.” He laughs again. “Just started dating this chick and she won’t have sex with me until she knows I’m clean.”

Makes sense.

I finish tying my second trainer, standing and pulling a hoodie over my head. “Yeah, you can follow me home. I can grab the cleats for you.”

I’m not in the mood to have anyone over—the guys tend to linger—but if he needs them before tomorrow and I have zero reason not to give them up…

“Cool. Preston and I will follow you.”

Preston?

Ugh.

Oh shite, that’s right—Preston is Will’s roommate, and Will drives the kid everywhere as if he were his chauffer.