Chapter 5
TRICK
The way I play the game with abandon, getting one goal and three assists, makes me think maybe Fifi is a good luck charm. Not that I’m not usually productive, but not like this. Even Coach Zabra gave me a grudging nod of approval.
“This calls for a celebration,” Bog declares, stepping off the bus at the Whit.
“I can’t make it. I have somewhere to be.” I hand him my bag. “Take this for me. See you tomorrow, guys.” I wave as they grumble and call me names when I walk away.
There’s not a lot of time before the Coop closes, but I promised a gift, so I hustle to the campus bookstore where I haven’t been since the beginning of last semester.
Candy is out, and I don’t have time to go off-campus for flowers, so I’ve settled on the brilliant idea of bringing Fifi a book of poetry.
It’s the most romantic gift I can think of—at the suggestions of Google’s AI. Stamping the snow off my sneakers, I approach the first book nerd—I mean expert—I see as I venture inside.
“Hello there, I need your help finding the most romantic book of poetry you have.”
The girl’s shock can’t be hidden by her glasses as she faces me.
“Oh my god! I can’t believe it. Trick Jennings is getting seriously romantic about a girl.” She clasps her hands to her chest so earnestly I’m afraid she might have hurt herself. Too late, I realize that even book nerds—I mean experts—are sometimes also hockey fans.
“Take it easy—what’s your name? It’s not what it looks like.”
“Pammy Pledge.”
“Pammy,” I say in a low voice, “I’m doing a favor for a friend.” Shit. That sounds cheesy. I should have gone with the class-assignment excuse.
She gives me a sly grin and winks like we’re in league together on some mission. “Don’t worry, Trick, I know how to keep a secret. Follow me.”
“It’s not like that, I swear.” I follow her upstairs, crossing my fingers inside the pocket of my hoodie against the bold-faced lie. And since when did strangers in bookstores start calling me Trick like we’re old pals?
She stops in front of a tall bookcase in a room off the third-floor gallery that I didn’t even know existed.
It’s stacked floor to ceiling with books that have that dusty old important scent, the kind of books that give the saying knowledge is power its gravitas.
Shit, I’m using big words now. There might be something to the scent of books—maybe it stimulates the mind.
Facing the bookcase on her tiptoes, she picks out a few books then turns to me.
“We have William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience.” She holds up a slim but fancy book, and I’m ready to grab it. “But I wouldn’t recommend it because it kind of hits a girl over the head with the message if you know what I mean.”
She holds up a second book. “This one is an anthology of English notables like Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth, which is fine, but this one is my favorite.” She quickly switches to the third book, an unassuming paperback.
“This one includes my all-time favorite love poem. It’s subtle and all the more moving. ” She rifles through it.
“Sounds good to me. I like to be subtle.”
She stops at a page. “If you want my advice, not that I have personal experience, but I think the most romantic thing you could do is take the time to memorize a poem and recite it to the object of your desire.”
The object of my desire? I almost laugh, but she’s perfectly serious. “Go for it.” I gesture for her to read the poem.
She clears her throat and then in a quiet voice, reads a poem for me. She throws herself into it with such feeling that I’m convinced Pammy is in love with me when she finishes. I softly applaud, and her face turns beet red, and her eyelashes flutter as she looks down.
“Bravo. That was something. You a drama major?”
She looks up, eyes widened and the blush gone. “No. I’m in a Master’s degree program for Cybersecurity Engineering.”
A low whistle blows through my lips. “That’s impressive. I knew you were a smart one. I chose the right person to help me. Thank you, Pammy.” I take the book from her, glancing at the poem as we go to a checkout area downstairs in the back.
She gift-wraps the book—her idea. “A wrapped gift, especially with a pink bow, is more romantic than handing her a plastic bag, right?”
“Absolutely.” I pull her aside because the store is getting busy and some customers—girls—glance our way.
“Look, Pammy, you can’t tell anyone about this.
I mean it. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.
” Not yet anyway, but the truth is the truth.
“The last thing I need are people gossiping and spreading false rumors about me.”
She nods, serious as a cybersecurity nerd.
“I get it. You’re a high-profile guy, and people like to talk about you.
Not me though.” She quickly shakes her head.
I’m starting to worry her neck is going to be sore tomorrow from all the head-shaking.
She’ll be standing in the store, stiff as a palace guard unable to look anywhere but straight ahead.
“Give me your solemn promise that you won’t say a word about this, not to anyone.”
“Of course. I promise. I was a girl scout if that counts for anything.” She holds two fingers against her forehead, and I smile because I know, without a doubt, I can trust Pammy Pledge.
“You a hockey fan? I’ll get you tickets to the next home game. Give me your number.”
She nods vigorously. “Oh,” she trills a nervous giggle. “I never dreamed Trick Jennings would be asking for my number.”
I wonder if she’s putting me on, but no, she’s seriously giddy, and I find myself smiling. “Don’t sell yourself short, Pammy.” I look her over out of habit. “I mean, technically, you are on the short side, but height isn’t everything.”
She giggle-snorts. “It’s true what they say. You’re so funny!”
“You’re not so bad yourself. You’re smarter than the average girl and nice. Give me your phone.”
Since her hands are clasped to her chest, strangled into white-knuckled submission, I put my hand out for her phone. Without blinking, she plucks it from her pocket and places it in my palm. I tap my number in while she watches me like I’m a magician.
Prying her fingers apart, I hand her phone back. “Maybe it’s your name, but I trust you, Pammy Pledge.”
She laughs, a real laugh, not that nervous giggle, and it sounds good and authentic.
“You really are funny. Whoever the girl is, tell her for me she’s very lucky.”
“I will.” I don’t bother carrying on with my lame story about buying the book for a friend, and she doesn’t call me on it.
“One final suggestion,” she says. “Memorize one poem and recite it to her.”
“Which one?” I don’t know why I’m asking because I don’t have time.
She tells me, and I nod. “See you at the next game.”
“I can’t wait. Thank you for trusting me, Patrick.”
I think I just made a friend. I walk out the door with the wrapped book of poetry safely tucked deep in my hoodie pocket and trot along the path to the remote end of campus where Fifi lives. The entire way, I run the lines of the poem Pammy recited for me through my head.
My knuckles hit the back door of twenty-two Hamlet Circle only once before it opens, and I’m not ready for her.
I thought I would be. Hell, I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for so long; I should be ready.
But staring at Fifi now, in the flesh, shakes loose some kind of nerves I never knew I had.
Here in private, in our own world, a foreign place where I’ve never been, to be honest, a place where I can be alone with her and…
“Come in.” With an ethereal glow, she stares at me like I’m not real, the same way I must be looking at her.
“This is wild.” It’s the stupidest possible thing I could say, but she nods, her expression somber and her eyes meeting mine with a softness as if she gets what I mean. Maybe she does. Maybe under all her confident planning, she’s getting the same unreal vibes I am.
“Come inside.” She takes my arm like she’s escorting an escapee from prison to the secret hiding place. Flicking a glance around her apartment, I take in the luxury digs as she drags me into her bedroom and shuts the door behind us.
“Are you hiding me like a dirty secret?” I have to snort a laugh because I don’t blame her, but it feels weird. As weird as everything about this rendezvous.
“Maybe. But no worries. I’m pretty sure my roommates are out for the evening.” She inhales a deep breath and, without looking behind her, plops down on her bed, deep into the fluffy pink comforter. “Honestly, I’m glad you’re here, but I’m a little nervous.”
Shit. That confession is a little too real for me and my overprotective ego. Feelings and vulnerability are not something I share. Not even with myself.
Almost in slow motion, as if she’s a skittish kitten, I approach without taking my eyes from hers and sit next to her. Close. “No need to be nervous, Fifi. I’m harmless.”
She laughs. It’s a genuine laugh, but it stirs all kinds of things—nothing like Pammy’s laugh, which was all about being comfortable pals.
Fifi’s laugh sends a foreboding shiver of excitement down my spine and straight to my dick, which is now vibrating like a stiff tuning fork pointed directly at the sexy object of my desire. Shit. I clear my throat.
“Sorry—I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that—”
“I know. I have a reputation.” I go for a disarming lopsided smile, relying on my one-sided dimple to communicate.
“I’ve heard.”
Shit. “What are they saying?”
“If you mean the gossips, it doesn’t matter because I’m disregarding them as unreliable.”
Her answer makes me equally pleased and uneasy. “Maybe you shouldn’t disregard—”