21. Well, as placeholder-boyfriends go, I’d say I’m killing it.”
"Well, as placeholder-boyfriends go, I’d say I’m killing it.”
Archie
I’m slouched on my sofa, one arm slung over the backrest, as I fight to muster up the willpower to cook something that isn’t toast or cereal. The room is quiet, broken only by the low murmur of the match preview playing on TV, and the fading golden light of evening spills through the window.
Then, a knock.
My head shoots up. No buzz, which means that whoever it is already had access to the building. Considering I don’t know many people here, that narrows it down to exactly one person.
I swing the door open, already smiling.
“Kat, hey.”
She’s balancing three stacked pizza boxes with a triumphant grin. “I come bearing pizza,” she announces. “I hope you’re hungry.”
I let out a low laugh. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
Taking the boxes from her with one hand, I loop the other around her waist, drawing her into my flat—and into me. She’s soft against my chest. I press a light kiss to her lips, then plant another, slower this time, just under her jaw. Her laughter vibrates against my chest.
“Just repaying you for the outstanding meal you brought me a couple days ago,” she says, toeing off her trainers as she steps into the foyer. “It’s been a while since I’ve had such a nice break at work. Thank you again.”
She stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to mine, and I can’t help but deepen the kiss.
I only saw her briefly yesterday, and I’ve missed her.
I know we said we were casually dating, but isn’t that how all relationships start?
Or are there really people out there who decide from Day 1 that it’s going to be serious?
“I was afraid you’d already had dinner,” she says, pulling back. “There was a long line at Pizza Express.”
“As there should be.” I nod solemnly. “And no, I was too lazy to get up from my sofa and make dinner. Tragic, huh?”
I stretch, pulling my arms overhead as I let out a yawn that makes Kat snort.
“Sorry,” I say. “Grueling training today. Do you want something to drink?”
I bring over two drinks, a stack of napkins, and the pizza boxes to the coffee table. Kat is already curled into the corner of the couch, legs folded beneath her, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands.
“I was about to watch the Manchester-Liverpool match,” I say, picking up the remote. “But I’m sure we can find something better to—”
“No, we can watch it,” she says, flipping open the box closest to her and inhaling deeply. “I don’t mind. Never watched anyone but the Regents play. Maybe I’ll like this team better.”
My mouth falls open. “You did not just say that.”
She presses her lips together, her eyes teasing. “Why? It’s only fair to the other teams, don’t you think?”
“Nope,” I deadpan. “You’re with me—casual or not—which means you have no choice but to be a Regents fan. That’s just how it is.”
She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “Mmm, I don’t know.”
“Well, I know, so trust me on this one.” I wink. “You don’t see me cheering on St. Jude’s surgeons now, do you? Only St. Mark’s. It’s called loyalty.”
She bursts into laughter. “It’s kind of fun, seeing you get all worked up like that. Relax,” she says, tearing off a slice of pepperoni and cheese. “I’ve only ever watched football because you were on the pitch. It won’t be remotely as interesting without you there.”
My face splits into a grin. “Oh, really?”
She rolls her eyes and chucks a throw pillow at me. “Don’t get cocky now. Are they any good?” she asks, nodding toward the TV, where the players are lining up in the tunnel.
“They are,” I say, grabbing a slice of my own. “But they’ve got nothing on us.” I wiggle my eyebrows and take a bite.
“I could have predicted that answer,” she says, nudging my knee with hers. “Have you ever played for another team?”
I shake my head as the taste of warm mozzarella and spicy pepperoni tickles my taste buds.
“Nope. After training at the Regents academy as a kid, I moved my way up to the team. Same with Finn. We’re pure Regents products,” I say with a chuckle, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
“Frankly, I don’t even see myself playing for another team, you know? ”
“Funny enough, I do.” She leans back, one leg stretched out now under the coffee table. “I actually interned at St. Mark’s. It’s the only hospital I’ve ever worked at, so I get it.”
“See? I knew we had that sense of loyalty in common.” I nudge her foot with mine, then reach for another slice. “That, and impeccable taste in pizza.”
“Well, you brought me Five Guys and Shake Shack in one sitting.” She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then adds, “You may have set the boyfriend bar a little too high.”
I glance over at her, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Boyfriend, huh?”
She freezes, a flicker of something in her eyes, then waves me off. “Relax. It’s a generic term. Placeholder. You know, for the guy who shows up at work with burgers.”
“Right.” I grin. “Well, as placeholder-boyfriends go, I’d say I’m killing it.”
“You are,” she says softly, eyes settling on mine for a split second before returning to her food.
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit, the roar of applause and snappy commentary of the announcers creating a cheery background noise.
She stretches out her legs, tucking her feet under the throw blanket I keep on the couch, and I watch her for a moment.
It’s a beautiful sight—Kat in her leggings and hoodie, relaxed in my living room, eating pizza like she belongs here.
I try not to read too much into the warmth that spreads through my chest, but it’s not easy to ignore.
“You know what’s funny?” she says out of nowhere. “I used to think people who watched sports on TV were a bit… much. Like, what’s the point if you’re not playing?”
“Excuse me?” I put a hand to my heart, mock-offended. “Watching football is an art form, thank you very much.”
She laughs. “Yeah, yeah. After seeing it for myself, I take it back. Kind of. It’s more fun when you know someone playing, though. It gives you someone to yell at.”
“Wow,” I say. “And here I thought you’d be the supportive type.”
“Oh, I am supportive,” she says with a mischievous grin. “But also brutally honest. If you screw up, I’m yelling at you. Fair warning.”
I lift my drink to her. “I’d expect nothing less.” After taking a sip, I clear my throat. “So… does that mean you’re now watching my matches?”
She presses her lips together. “Fine. I’ll admit I caught bits of your away match at Birmingham last week during my shift. And maybe a couple others too.”
A grin splits my face, but I don’t push her further. Truthfully, though, it warms my heart that she takes the time to watch my matches.
We settle into the match, stealing bites of pizza between commentary and occasional trash talk. She asks smart questions—positioning, offside rules, formations—and I’m surprised by how quickly she picks up on things.
At one point, when a striker misses a sitter, she groans louder than I do. “Seriously? My nan could have scored that.”
I angle myself to face her, stunned. “You’re turning into a football fan.”
She shrugs, trying to play it cool. “I just don’t like incompetence.”
“That’s it. You’re watching the rest of the season with me,” I declare. “It’s non-negotiable.”
She lifts a slice in salute. “Maybe… As long as there’s pizza involved.”
“You can have anything you want,” I say, awe slipping into my voice. “You’ve never looked as sexy as you do right now.”
A slight blush covers her cheeks, and she glances at me. “Save that for half-time. I’m watching the match.”
Yeah, I’m doomed.