Chapter 19
Nineteen
Two days later, I’m lying on my bed after practice, with Maggie still in charge of my thoughts. I’m missing pieces of her story. And I want to put this puzzle together. I also realized that I don’t hate Maggie McCrae. Hate is a strong word. And she doesn’t hate me. She only thinks she hates me.
But how to make the girl realize she doesn’t?
I adjust the pillow behind my head and snatch my phone from the bedside table.
Me: How do you convince a woman she doesn’t dislike you?
Me: Wait. Did I send this to our group? Sorry guys, that was meant for Roman.
Roman: Whoa. Why is that particular question for me?
Me: It’s not obvious?
Zev: I think he’s referring to the fact that, up until a few months ago, you liked no one, you dated no one, and no one liked you back.
Callum: Besides us, of course. We always liked you.
Zev: Well, Callum did.
Me: You’re like wine. I liked you—I just liked you better with time.
Zev: And with Stella.
Roman: Meh. That’s fair.
Callum: What’s this about, Lucca?
Zev: McCrae.
Roman: Obviously.
Me: Why obviously? I’m not Roman. Women love me.
Zev: Except McCrae.
Roman: Obviously.
Callum: I don’t think I can be involved in this. I already inadvertently gave you her number. I will never trust you with my phone again, Lucca.
Zev: So, now you like her?
Roman: No more Lucca explosions?
Me: I might like her.
Callum: Again, I can’t be a part of this. If you want someone to set you up, Lucca, talk to my wife.
Me: I don’t need to be set up. I am perfectly capable of getting myself a date. I just want to cool things off with McCrae. I’m ready to end the war.
Zev: But she’s still fighting?
Me: Something like that. Again—how do you convince a woman that she doesn’t dislike you? I’ve NEVER had this problem before. Roman?
Roman: I’m not answering that.
Callum: Maybe just try being nice to her.
Me: I literally gave her nephew the shirt off my back. She was unimpressed.
Zev: Did you give it to him to impress her? If so, your motives were corrupt.
Roman: Yeah, man. Even I know that won’t cut it. You have to be sincere.
Me: Roman, how did you convince Stella that she liked you?
Roman: Number one—no one convinces Stella of anything. She decides. Second—I think Callum and Zev are right. You need pure motives. If you truly like her now and you want her to like you, you need honest intentions. Be nice. Maybe don’t lose it on the field when she makes a fair call.
Me: Did the Graveyard just tell ME not to lose it?
Zev: He’s got a point, Roman.
Callum: Yeah… even I find that funny.
Roman: I’m right, though.
Zev: 100%
Callum: Yep. Listen.
Nice? I’m always nice.
Are my motives always pure? Maybe not.
But they are this time. In some ways, Maggie might remind me a little of my vovó.
Which is strange, because I don’t even know her reasoning for taking care of her nephew the way she does.
His mom seems more than capable. She also seemed happy to let Maggie lead.
Maybe she’s like that because the kid’s father is absent. Maybe that’s just how she is.
Either way, I’m the nicest guy I know. And my motives aren’t selfish. They are curious. They are peaceful and war-ending. What’s more pure than that?
I warm leftovers from the pasta I made last night and sit down with my phone in hand.
Nice. Friendly. I can do that.
Easy.
Me: How’s Wyatt?
This time, she doesn’t make me wait.
Maggie: You’re texting me. Again.
Me: I am. Wyatt?
Maggie: He’s refusing to let me wash the jersey you gave him. He’s afraid your signature will wash out. It smells like sweat and Old Spice. And I can hardly go into his bedroom.
Sweat? It doesn’t smell like sweat. It was clean. That kid is smart not to wash that jersey. It’s more valuable that way.
Me: I don’t use Old Spice. It simply smells like me.
Maggie: You really love yourself. Don’t you?
Me: Don’t you love yourself? Maggie with the secret soccer-playing past and the sprinkle of freckles on her nose.
Maggie: Are you flirting with me?
Me: No. I’m being nice. And friendly. My motives are pure.
Does it make motives less pure if you call them pure? I’m pondering that thought when my phone pings with another text. I take another bite of my alfredo and peer down to see what Maggie’s written back.
Maggie: I doubt that.
Me: What is it you think I want from you, McCrae?
Maggie: Something. No idea what. But you’ve done me this huge favor of coming to Wyatt’s party and giving him a jersey, and now you think I owe you.
Maggie: You’re going to do something unsportsman on the field, aren’t you? You’re going to behave badly, and you’re going to want me to turn my head like nothing happened.
Me: No.
Maggie: No? That’s it?
Me: That’s it.
Me: Like I said at Wyatt’s party, I think we could be friends. I’d like to try.
My phone sits silent. My pure motives and sincere kindness are sinking in and wearing her down. I can feel it. Maggie’s going to love me.
I smile to myself.
I mean, why wouldn’t she?
My phone pings, and I peer down at her message.
Maggie: I highly doubt that.