8. Liana
In the bathroom stall, I stare down at Tate’s text. Even though I knew it was coming, the idea of meeting him as Not Mal sends my mind into overdrive. Tate doesn’t know me and Not Mal are one and the same. For the moment, I’m not sure I want him to. At least not until I show him how awesome Liana can be.
This night has been such a whirlwind. I already had feelings for Leonard. I already thought Tate was unattainably hot.
There’s a fine line I have to walk. Any move I make, whether as me or Not Mal, could be a step in the wrong direction. I type, then delete, then type again, until I’m satisfied with Not Mal’s reply. It’s a long shot, but it might buy me some time to think.
After Tate and I share a dessert, he sets up another ride share. We leave the restaurant, heading to the team’s hotel.
After a win, their curfew is extended a couple of hours. Since it’s still early in the evening, I doubt we’ll see many familiar faces in the hotel lobby. In fact, I’m surprised Tate doesn’t want to head out to meet them.
It’s quiet in the car. The driver has the stereo playing softly. Rather than announce my question for him to hear, I touch Tate’s hand and whisper, “I know you don’t drink. But it’s still early. If you want to meet the boys out on the town, I’ll understand.”
“Not tonight,” he whispers. His breath smells minty fresh because of course it does.
“Do you normally go out?”
“Sometimes.” I don’t think it’s a lie exactly, but the Leonard I know is a homebody. We have that in common, always finding a movie to watch together but separate in our houses across town.
And sometimes, instead of a movie, Leonard likes to read a book.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask him.
Tate shrugs slightly. I notice he doesn’t move his hand, which oddly enough I’m still touching. I don’t want to move either. Not away from him. Instead, I inch my fingers over his.
He stiffens. I’m hoping in a good way.
“I like to golf,” he says. “I like to read. Work out. You know. The normal stuff.”
“Yeah? You read?”
“Mostly audiobooks while I’m working out.”
“What’s the last book you read?”
He chuckles. I know why. It’s not necessarily a book a macho quarterback wants to admit to reading, but it’s something Leonard was willing to tell Not Mal.
“You’re going to laugh at me,” he says.
“Am I?”
“Have you heard of Christina Lauren?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, it’s their last book.”
“Their?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s about to tell me.
“Yeah, it’s actually a pen name. Christina and Lauren are two people.”
“Oh, right. I knew that. It’s just like Emily and Henry are two people.”
“Stop it!” He laughs. “You read rom com?”
“On occasion.”
Leonard knows the last book Not Mal read was by Emily Henry. Sadly, Tate doesn’t seem to catch the connection. But it does lead him down the Not Mal path.
“She texted me, by the way.”
“Who? Not Mal?” My hand squeezes his.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “She’s not quite ready to meet.”
“Is that what she said?”
“No.” He hesitates to move his hand, but he does, pulling out his phone and showing me the text.
I read my own text aloud. “I’m in the middle of a project that needs tweaking.”
“It’s a line from You’ve Got Mail. It’s one of my favorite movies, which of course she knows.”
“Weird.” Of course I knew that. “Maybe that’s a good thing then? She’s telling you she needs space but showing you it’s going to work out in the end.”
“Good point.” He nods. “I don’t mind waiting to meet. One of my favorite things as a quarterback is calling the hard count.”
“What’s that?”
“Not to be confused with that social media feed,” he says sourly. “No, it’s what we do when we’re trying to draw the defense offsides. The quarterback has to watch the clock. Call out a bogus cadence—you know the silly words we do before plays. I take as much time as possible off the clock, and the defense doesn’t know if I’m going to snap the ball or call a timeout just as the clock runs out. If they think I’m going to snap it, they might jump.”
Tate drops his hand back to the same exact place, except this time, its palm is face up, open.
Throwing caution to the wind, I drop my hand into his and intertwine our fingers. The same thrill rockets through me. My heart begins to beat so loud, I swear it’s audible outside my chest.
“The hard count,” I say. “Maybe that’s what your relationship with Not Mal has been. It sounds like y’all have done a lot of texting.”
“I can see it that way.” His fingers lock into place with mine.
If only he knew who I am.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I say. “You’re a good guy. A real catch—a fade into the end zone or whatever. Sorry I don’t know many football terms.”
“No apology necessary.” His thumb strokes mine. “You’re amazing too. The way you do your job—the way you’ve handled this whole scandal with The Hard Count. I mean, we all think you’re a rockstar.”
A wave of guilt floods my system. My heart’s still racing but not in a good way. Not anymore.
Tate knowing I’m Not Mal is one thing, but if he knew about Osprey_Informant89, it would wreck this—whatever this is.
I’d lose my job, which I don’t care about.
More importantly, I’d lose any chance I have with him.
Tate’s too good a guy. He’s the exact opposite of the starting quarterback he looks up to. He won’t understand why I had to create that account.
So, I steer the conversation in another direction. “If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you date much?”
Tate goes rigid again, stunned by this line of questioning. “You aren’t lobbing softballs tonight, are you?”
“I’m just trying to get to know you,” I say.
“It’s funny.” He squeezes my hand. “Because I already feel like I know you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He sighs. “You know about helicopter parents? Well, my dad’s an Apache. One way or another, he’s blown up every relationship I’ve ever had.”
“Which is how many exactly?”
“Serious relationships?” He contemplates. “Maybe three. The longest was with a girl in college. We were long distance. She went to our rival school. You can imagine how my dad reacted when he found out I was driving there every weekend of the off-season.”
“How’d he blow it up?”
“He told my coach.”
“Yikes.”
The car slows. We’re let out not at the main entrance but near the pool area where a side door leads to a stairwell. It being winter, there’s nobody around, not even in the hot tub.
“I’m wary of fans at the entrance,” he explains.
“Fans, huh?” I grin. “Not your teammates ready to give you a hard time?”
“Oh, I’m wary of them, too.” He smiles.
Opening the car door, he again takes my hand, leading the way up the stairs.
Neither of us say a thing. We pretend this is normal behavior, holding hands the way we are. If it were normal, my heart wouldn’t be beating like I’m in the midst of a 5k run.
Perhaps it’s time we walk, not run. I let go of Tate’s hand when we reach my floor, which, it turns out, is also Tate’s floor.
His room is near the stairwell. Mine is several rooms over within shouting distance. He offers to walk me, but somehow we stay rooted to the spot in front of his door.
“I had a good time tonight,” I tell him.
“I mean, we did get engaged.” He puts his hands in his pockets and rolls his shoulders. “And we kissed.”
“We did, didn’t we?” I bite my lip.
He yanks his hands from his pockets and rakes them through his hair. “I’m kind of dying to do it again.”
“Same.” My hand grips the middle of his tie and tugs until his lips close on mine.