14. Klein
What do you think about going to Oliver’s soccer game next weekend? You could meet him and my sister.
You want me to meet more of your family? Don’t you think we’re moving too fast? We’ve only been fake dating a few weeks.
You afraid?
Nooo.
Don’t go soft on me now, Royce. This is for believability. Oliver’s an important person in my life. It’ll look weird if you’ve never met him. What do you say?
One question…should I bring my trusty foam finger??
Paisley arrivesat the game ten minutes before it begins. She wears ripped jeans, a V-neck lavender tee, and sneakers. As much as I appreciate her work attire and those heels she favors, I like the casual look on her, too. She spots me standing in the grass near my parking spot and waves.
I stride her way, and she comes mine. As she walks she reaches into her purse, producing a white baseball cap that she fits onto her head.
My stride nearly breaks. I’ve always thought baseball hats on girls are cute, but on Paisley? It’s on a whole new level, and on that elevated level the descriptor is no longer cute. It’s sexy.
Sexy as hell.
Sexy as fuck.
Sexy as if she were standing in front of me in something lacy and barely there.
She stops in front of me. There’s a smile on her face, no makeup that I can tell, and two gold hoops dangling from her earlobes. The delicate purple shade of her shirt makes the green in her eyes stand out more than the blue.
Curling a finger, I tap it against the bill of her hat. “Nice hat. Wrong sport.” Maybe lighthearted teasing will keep me from telling her how attractive I find her.
“No such thing as a soccer hat,” she trills.
Is she… nervous? No way. Not Paisley.
My hand cups her elbow. Immediately I regret it, wishing I’d gone for a place less asexual. I could’ve at least touched her shoulder. Too late, but I’m mentally kicking myself anyhow. “I’m glad you made it,” I say, hoping my internal agony isn’t showing on my face.
She blinks up at me. “I told you I’d be here.”
I release her elbow and take a step back. “I know. But it’s a kids soccer game.” Now I’m the one feeling nervous. Did I really invite her to my nephew’s soccer game? What a chump. Paisley’s probably used to far better, well-planned dates. “I’m sure you have a lot of other things you could be doing with your morning.”
“I do,” she says, tilting her head. “But this is important, too. Believability, and all.”
“Right,” I nod along. “Believability.”
“Uncle Klein!”
We turn in tandem toward Oliver. Decked out in a navy blue uniform with red lining around the collar and red knee-length socks, he runs at me full speed.
I catch him easily, swinging him around. Eden’s a few steps behind.
She walks up to Paisley and extends a hand. “You must be Paisley. I’m Eden, Klein’s older sister.”
I set Oliver on his feet. Eden reaches over and musses his hair. “This wild man is my son, Oliver.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.”
Oliver unwinds a backpack from Eden’s shoulder. “Gotta go. I don’t wanna be late for warm-ups. Coach is strict. He says I’m on a club team now and I have to act like it.”
I frown. These kids are ten. What does it mean to ‘act like it’? As soon as Oliver is out of ear shot, I tell Eden, “I think I’m going to have to spend some time making that social media model less attractive in the facial area.”
Eden bursts out laughing. “I fear a crooked nose would only give him a dangerous edge, and you know ladies love a dangerous man.”
My frown deepens to a scowl.
“Backstory, please,” Paisley sings out.
I run a hand through my hair, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Oliver’s new coach is an aspiring fitness influencer.” Even I hear the disdain in my tone.
“Klein is jealous,” Eden teases, pinching my cheek.
“False,” I declare, deepening the timbre of my voice to make my sister laugh.
Paisley looks out to the field, her eyes zeroing in on the coach leading fifteen ten-year-old boys through warm up exercises. His thigh muscles strain against his shorts, and the sleeves of his T-shirt appear to be suffocated by his biceps. Does he not own clothing that fits?
“All right, all right,” Paisley says. “I’m gonna need some proof.”
Eden whips out her phone. She has the soccer coach’s social media profile pulled up in fewer than seven seconds.
“Wow, Eden,” I gripe. “You didn’t even have to search for it. You keep it queued?”
She thrusts the phone in front of Paisley’s face, but her eyes shoot death rays at me. “Have a modicum of respect. This is Oliver’s future daddy you’re talking about.”
Paisley’s gaze rakes over the screen, pointing at a video that appears to be him demonstrating hip stretches. “I think maybe you should make him your daddy.”
“That’s it,” I mutter, annoyed at Paisley’s open appreciation. “You’re kicked out of the game, Paisley.”
“No way,” Eden interjects. She loops an arm around Paisley, tugging her into her side. “Paisley is my new best friend.”
I rub my temples. “I should have known introducing you two was a bad idea.”
The referee’s whistle blows, indicating the start of the game.
I swat at Eden’s phone. “If you two are done slobbering over him, there’s a game starting.”
Eden takes Paisley to the sidelines while I retrieve chairs from the back of Eden’s car. I return with two, setting them up and gesturing for Paisley to sit.
“Where’s yours?” she asks.
“Klein doesn’t sit during games,” Eden answers. “He’s too high strung.”
“Coaches don’t sit,” I inform my sister.
“Former coaches,” Eden corrects.
Paisley grins widely, far too amused by my sister’s responses.
I spend the next forty-five minutes showing Paisley exactly what Eden meant about me being high strung.
“Can you calm down?” she asks, craning her neck to watch me as I pace behind her.
I throw out an angry arm, gesturing across the field. “The coach is an idiot. Why doesn’t he tell them to stop passing toward the middle?”
Eden looks at me reproachfully. “Maybe he said something to them while they were on the sidelines but you couldn’t hear it because you’re not there? Because you are no longer Oliver’s coach?”
“Maybe I should be,” I retort, growling.
Eden’s eyebrows lift. “What, now you’re going to get a third job?”
“Hold up.” Paisley’s head swivels to my sister. “A third job? You mean because he’s a bartender and also a writer?”
“Maybe I should’ve said fourth job,” Eden says. “Add home remodel to that list.”
Confusion lands on Paisley’s face. “Home remodel?”
Annoyance fills me. I wish my sister would stop talking. “The owner of Obstinate Daughter is in the middle of remodeling his house. I’ve been helping him out here and there.”
Paisley tips up the brim of her hat so she can see me better. “Now you’re an architect?”
My arms cross. “No, I’m good at swinging a sledgehammer around and knocking shit down.”
She stares up at me, lips pursed.
“What?” I look down at her. She’s probably scrambling to figure out how she’s going to explain to her mother that her boyfriend is also a swinger of sledgehammers. Is she wishing she’d stumbled onto some other guy with a better pedigree to be her fake date? The thought puts a sadness deep in my chest, and a layer of scorn on top. “You don’t like the fact your fake boyfriend has callused hands? Are you having second thoughts about parading me around in front of your family?”
She lets out a little breath, offended. “That is not what I said.”
“Geez, Klein,” Eden interjects. “It won’t be your calluses that get you kicked off the love train, it’s going to be your bad attitude.”
Paisley crosses her arms and glares at me. “She’s right.”
In the center of the field, the referee glances at his watch and slows his pace. He brings his whistle to his lips and blows a cadence signaling the end of the game.
The adults clap, shouting, Good work, boys, and It’s OK, you’ll win the next one.
Bummer. The disappointment I feel is similar to that of Oliver and his teammates trudging off the field.
“One scoop, Klein,” Eden instructs, warning in her tone.
I refuse her with a head shake. “It is a two-scoop day, Eden, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
“Fine,” she grumbles. To Paisley, she explains, “Klein takes Oliver out for a treat after soccer. Win or lose.”
Oliver comes off the field, backpack weighing down his already hunched shoulders. His gaze meets mine, and his lower lip quivers.
I wrap him in a hug, ignoring the sweaty smell coming off him. “You played well. Be proud of that.”
“We lost,” Oliver says irritably.
“There are lessons to be found in losing.”
“Uncle Klein, right now I just can’t see what they are.”
I nod, eyes squinting like I’m thinking deeply. “Do you believe a double scoop of ice cream will help your vision?”
One side of Oliver’s mouth curls up in a smile. “Only if there’s marshmallow fluff and crumbled Oreos on top.”
Eden huffs. “If you insist on giving him all that sugar, you’re taking him for the afternoon.”
I offer a high five to Oliver. “Told you I could get her to let you come over for the afternoon, and have a treat the size of your head.”
Oliver beams, his lost soccer game behind him now that ice cream is in his future. He slaps my palm with as much force as he can muster. “Uncle Klein, you’re the best.”
Over Oliver’s head I point back at myself and mouth to Eden, “I’m the best.”
Eden less-than-gently taps the center of my chest. “Best uncles facilitate the building of dioramas. That we don’t have the materials for.” She pretends to shake pom-poms. “Yay.”
Oliver groans and swings his body around like this is the worst news he could receive.
I wink at him. “It’s a good thing I double-majored in creative writing and diorama construction.”
Hoisting a folded chair on each shoulder, I lead the way across the grassy field toward the parking lot.
“My little brother played soccer,” Paisley tells Oliver. “I remember going to his games. You’re way better than he was.”
“Thanks.” He squints one eye and looks up at her. “Are you Uncle Klein’s girlfriend?”
“Paisley is my friend,” I answer.
Oliver has his next question ready. “Have you ever watched him play soccer?”
“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ sound.
“You should. He’s really good.”
I grin at Oliver. You’d think we had an agreement the way he’s talking me up.
We reach Eden’s car and I fit the chairs into the trunk. To Paisley, I ask, “Are you up for ice cream?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll let you guys have some family time. Besides, I have work to do.”
Oliver makes a face. “On a Saturday?”
She grins down at him. “I’m afraid so.”
“You should at least eat some ice cream before you work,” I cajole, drawing out the last word.
Her gaze lifts to me. “Shouldn’t the treat come after the hard work is finished?”
“No,” my sister, Oliver, and I say in unison.
Paisley laughs, and Eden waves goodbye. “It was nice meeting you.” She fixes me with a pointed look. “Hope to see you again soon.”
Eden walks around the side of the SUV, Oliver in tow. “See you there, Uncle Klein,” he yells, adding a wave.
I walk Paisley to her car parked nearby. “You should come with us.”
A hmm sounds from her throat. “For believability? So I can report to my family your nephew’s favorite ice cream flavor?”
We’re stopped at the back of her car. My hand comes out between us, reaching for her, and I realize what I’m doing and drop it. I’m going to have to be careful. With Paisley it’s almost too easy to forget this is all fake. We’re too good at bantering, at teasing, at getting along.
Forcing a smile, I shrug and say, “Because I want you to.”
She worries her bottom lip with her teeth.
I wish I could retract my invite. Why did I say anything at all? Going to Oliver’s soccer game so she can meet him and be able to speak about him is one thing, but getting ice cream with my family, just for the sake of spending time with them, is another. We’re not together, and let’s be honest, I’m not the guy she’d choose.
Apology spreads through her gaze. “Klein, I?—”
My lips draw into a hard line. “I get it. Don’t worry about it.” I put a step between us, because I need space. I can’t be that close to her right now. It hurts.
She reaches out, but I’m not there to touch, and her arms fall limply to her side. “I don’t think you understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” I keep my voice even. “This”—I gesture between our bodies—“is strictly business. No fraternizing beyond what’s necessary.”
She frowns. “It’s not that.”
Hope, persistent and irritating, sparks in my chest. “What is it then?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and her facial expression shifts into quiet panic.
The hope is extinguished.
Paisley makes a sound of frustration, a strangled cry, and without thought I reach for her, grasping her forearm. She looks down at where I’m touching her, a quick breath slamming to the back of her throat.
My calluses.
I helped knock down walls three times this week. My calluses are prominent, more than when I’ve touched Paisley before.
She’s disgusted. By my touch.
It wrecks me.
As if her skin is a hot stove, I jerk back my hand. Here it is again, embarrassment covered up by anger. “How dare I touch you with my calloused hands.” It doesn’t sound angry, just insecure.
Paisley’s nose wrinkles, lips pressing together like an accordion while a determined ‘v’ appears between her eyebrows.
“Those hands.” She points a stiff finger at me. “Stop talking about those hands as if they’re a turn-off. They are a badge of honor, a trophy, an emblem of an honest man doing a hard day’s work. The fact you assume I think otherwise is insulting.”
She grabs my hands, whisking them under her T-shirt. I jolt at the feel of her warm, smooth skin, the dip of her belly button under the pad of my middle finger. She guides my hands over her stomach, fire burning in her blue-green irises. “Do I look like I care about your calluses?”
Shock holds me, but soon I’m moving on my own, running my hands over her sides, curving around to her lower back. Feeling Paisley’s body. She shivers. She has…goose bumps.
Could it be? She likes my rough touch?
My hands remain in place on her back, frozen but for my thumbs gently stroking her soft skin.
“Paisley.” My voice tumbles out, a deep and rumbly whisper.
“Yeah?” Her voice is shallow.
“I’m sorry. I’m...”
“Sensitive?” She arches an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder. We didn’t grow up with much, and...” my voice trails off. There are things I haven’t told her. Memories I prefer not to relive.
“Don’t worry about it,” she assures, stepping away and causing my hands to fall from her shirt. “Are we good?”
It’s the second time we’ve had to determine that we are, in fact, still good. I’m beginning to wonder if ‘good’ is a stand-in for the word ‘friends.’
I hold back my sigh. “We’re good, Royce.”
She walks to her car door, throwing me a tentative smile as she opens it. “See you soon, Madigan.”
She climbs in, and I go to my vehicle. I’m sure Eden and Oliver are almost to the ice cream place.
As for me, the feel of Paisley’s skin remains on my hands.