Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Len
Ice crystals sparkle on the tips of the frozen blades of grass. An overcast sky lingers, allowing them to shine without being melted away, and every few steps on my way to the newsroom, the air clouds in front of me with a release of breath…and my so-called confidence.
The way Zaiah said “ If you can …”
If I can? Of course, I— I can’t flirt. What am I doing?
I physically, possibly even mentally, don’t know how to do such a thing.
My stomach churns. It’ll just be me and Clark, like it always is. Me, getting all the tingles while we work on the formatting. Him, being his cute little pre-Superman self.
I should be ecstatic. So why does my mind wander back to Zaiah?
Holy penis, that’s why.
I flush all over, remembering the accidental flash. For a split second, I’d imagined he meant to. That his smirk was pride in showing me his…let’s face it, thick cock.
“See what you do to me?” he says in my erotica daydream.
He runs his fist up and down his length. My body floods with desire.
“I can’t wait to take you, Sexy Girl. On your knees.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to calm. In what world would he ever call me Sexy Girl ? Plus, thinking about Zaiah that way permeates into dangerous territory. Not only are we roommates now, but given my history with him, I could get carried away. Fast.
I’ll admit, I was jealous of Trish. When I spilled the beans about her cheating, I worried I was being selfish. If my envy over their relationship clouded my judgment. Don’t get me wrong, I knew what she was doing was terrible and selfish, but who was I more loyal to?
Trish didn’t have a problem bringing that up in that last fight.
Zaiah deserves so much more than her, though. He shouldn’t be second to anyone, and neither should I.
The fact is that he doesn’t see me like that. He never has. I need to put all thoughts of him away and focus on someone I could possibly have: Clark.
I get to the newspaper building and stall because that realization still doesn’t help me with flirting. Calling Zaiah now and asking him how to do it would make me want to crawl under a rock, so I gather other resources. One, I send a quick text to Izzy. I’ve just met her, but I miss having a girlfriend I can talk about this stuff with. Two, I pull up trusty Google since I don’t have the time to look for better resources. In some instances, however, Google can be good, and I hope this is one of those times.
Top results: Playfulness, Authenticity, Respect, Kindness.
Teasing and joking. Okay, I can do that. I do that with Zaiah.
I do that with Zaiah?!
Before I can look too far into it, my phone buzzes with a text from Izzy.
Cleavage. Zaiah likes cleavage.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
This isn’t about your brother!
Oh, right. Sure. Well, I think every guy likes cleavage.
I peer down at my shirt. There’s no way a pop of boob is going to come out of there, so that nixes that idea.
Then again, this guy sounds like the opposite of most guys. He probably wants you fully covered. Standoffish. Be cold. Ignore him.
I eye my phone screen. I don’t even think I said much about Clark. Clearly, she doesn’t know how to flirt either.
Playfulness it is.
With a deep breath, I pull open the door and walk toward the newsroom. I glance past the glass windows and find Clark there, his laptop open in front of him. He bites down on a pencil, and besides how unsanitary that is, he looks cute.
My heart springs into action, beating harder. Before he can see me watching him, I move to the door and open it. He glances up when I enter, smiling. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” I say. My brain fires, telling me to add a flirty nickname, so I quickly conjure up, “My super—” NO, NO, NO. ABORT! “My super…editor, you.”
His smile grows wider. “Not feeling it today, though. This layout has got me stumped.”
His gaze immediately tracks back down to the screen. Maybe I should’ve come in butt first? Zaiah did say my butt looks good in leggings.
My stomach flutters all over again, but I push that thought out of my mind. “I’m sure we can figure it out.”
I would normally set up across from him, but not this time. I stride to his side of the table, drop my stuff in an empty chair, and move in close. First, I just stare at him. Clark is the right amount of good looking. Perfectly cute. Though, his jaw isn’t as nice as Zaiah’s. His frame is smaller, too. Most guys our age are, so it’s not his fault. I’m one hundred percent sure Clark isn’t packing the six-pack Zaiah has. Or the—
My face flushes.
I need to get his dick out of my brain.
“Any thoughts?”
Clark still hasn’t really looked at me yet. Had I worn a shirt for cleavage purposes, he wouldn’t have even noticed.
I sigh, finally looking down to see what he has. Clark has many talents as an editor, but layout isn’t one of them. One glaring error is that he has my clock tower article on the front page. “Oh, Clark, I’m not done with the clock tower piece. Maybe next issue.”
He peers over. “Really? You’re usually so much more prompt.”
A pang of pain hits me square in the chest. I search for the right words because I did tell him I’d have it done this upcoming week, but I didn’t mean Tuesday’s paper. “I don’t have enough right now, and I got another idea over the weekend that will take some time to put in place.”
He sighs. “Well, that ruins that idea.”
“Run the piece Murphy is working on,” I offer.
“He said he needs another week as well.”
“Hasn’t he been working on it for over a month?”
Clark shrugs, and I have to take a deep breath to calm myself. He’s saying I’m not prompt? “I’m sure someone has something worthy of front and center.”
“I’ll figure it out.” A quick, hard tap on the delete key cuts the placeholder title for my article from the doc. Guilt laces through me. I’ve really been working on that article when I can, pretty much all available hours, but it’s a bigger piece than I imagined when I pitched the idea.
I shake those thoughts away. He’s not mad at me, I tell myself. He’s overwhelmed by the layout.
“Of course you will.” Placing my hand tentatively on his shoulder, I rub my thumb over it. However, as soon as I do it, I stare at my hand in horror. It feels weird. Wrong, even. Heck, I touched Zaiah’s naked chest all night changing out his heating pad to ice every hour or so, yet this is so much more awkward.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
He still doesn’t look up, so I drop my hand, shaking the odd feeling off. Maybe if we get the layout over with, he’ll finally notice me.
I stare at the project, and my brain starts clicking. “Why don’t you ask Aimee for that piece she’s been working on? Pretty sure she had something for you. Run with Flora’s piece on the side column, then our sports box… Oh, the hockey score is wrong. It was five to two, not four to two.”
“How do you know?”
“I was at the game.”
He peers up. We’re hunched over the laptop together, but I can feel his gaze on me. Slowly, I turn to face him. He cocks his head. “You don’t like sports.”
“Oh, I, um… Well, I was kind of coerced.” I push my glasses up my nose.
He studies me a moment, then takes out his phone. “I’ll text Dev to confirm.”
I could text a better source than that but whatever. While he’s busy, I switch the football score and the hockey score around, putting the hockey score on top. Ha .
“While he gets back to me,” he trails off as we start to work on the rest of the paper.
We go over each page, and I have the whole thing done in about half an hour. When we’re through, I shrug. “I think you get caught in the weeds,” I tell him. “You can’t do it wrong.”
“You’re a whiz,” he says in awe. “It’s like you have a sixth sense.”
He’s not even looking at me, but I feel his compliment down to my toes. I bump him with my shoulder. “Look who’s talking.”
It was supposed to be a playful gesture, but Clark stumbles into the chair next to him, and I watch in horror when he catches himself on it, flailing.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry!”
He blushes as he rights himself. “Maybe you should try out for the football team. You’d make a good linebacker.”
My shoulders slump, and I groan internally. Just what every girl wants to be compared to, a hulk of a man. I barely touched him!
His phone pings, and he peers down at it. “Dev says the score is right.”
“It’s not,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Here, I’ll text Zaiah.”
“Zaiah?”
“Zaiah James. He’s a winger.”
“You know a hockey player?”
“Mm-hmm. You know, the guy who was in here the other day?” While I’m talking, I text with Zaiah:
Hey, what was the score of the game yesterday? Need it for the paper.
Is this a cry for help? You were there.
I know but pretend I don’t because the sports reporter is saying something different, and I need proof to show Clark.
Just tell him you’re right.
I did.
Then?
Please text the score.
Wait…
I send a few periods in a row to bury the rest of the conversation so Clark won’t read what we’re saying.
.
.
.
What the fuck was that?
The score, Zaiah.
Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m feeling better?
I smile, shaking my head. So stubborn.
“What are you smiling about?” Clark asks.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I’d almost forgotten he was waiting. “Oh, Zaiah’s being…Zaiah.” I point to the phone like the evidence is all there, but when Clark looks over, I angle it out of the way.
Since I nursed you back to health all night, I know you’re fine. The score.
For the record, I think this is ridiculous.
.
.
.
.
5–2, sexy butt.
You ass.
I cover up the sexy butt and show my phone to Clark. “From a player himself.”
“Okay.” He sighs as he changes the score, not even realizing that I switched the order around. “Wonder if the rest of these are even right.”
“Dev should probably pay more attention. All of them could be wrong.”
He shudders, and I agree. We’re here to report the news, not give out misinformation.
My phone buzzes again.
How’s the flirting?
I flirt adequately, thank you.
Adequately? I can already tell this is going terribly.
That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t only nurse jocks back to health, I can flirt with the best of them.
“You sure do smile at your phone a lot.”
“I smile at you, too, if you would pay attention.”
The words fly out before I even realize. It’s all Zaiah’s fault. I was in a combative and playful mood texting the stubborn jerk.
My hand flies over my mouth, my phone forgotten. Mortification flits through me, and my face heats like a raging furnace. “Sorry, Clark. I don’t— I just—”
He grins, and it warms his face. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he stands up straight. “I’m always in business mode when we’re in here, aren’t I?”
I nod, holding my phone to my chest. “Which is honorable,” I state. “Very honorable. Please, I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t, um….”
“It’s okay. I kind of like the idea of you smiling at me.”
“You do?” My heart thumps, a rush sounding in my ears. It’s like I’m living in a vacuum as I hear my voice ask, “Maybe we could go do something sometime? Coffee? Or…” That’s all I’ve got. Coffee. “Or something other people do?”
He places his hand on my shoulder. “That would be nice. We should do…something.”
I can’t tell if he’s as nervous as I am or if he’s trying to joke with me about my complete and utter lack of eloquence in this moment, but I did it. I did what Zaiah told me to do, and now Clark keeps staring at me. It’s kind of unnerving, actually. I feel like I have to say something. Anything. I laugh nervously and peer at my feet. “Sorry, I’m bad at this.”
“Me too.” He chuckles, and I feel a little better, but only a fraction.
At least we can be bad together. I think about saying exactly that, but the innuendo stops me. “We could go for coffee now. If we’re done here?”
He checks his watch. Disappointment hits me, but then he answers, “Yeah, I can do that.”
I gather my things and wait as Clark saves the file and shuts his computer down. He doesn’t look at me again until he says, “Ready.” I make sure to walk away first, hoping Zaiah isn’t lying about the way my butt looks in leggings. The more I wear them, the more comfortable I’m getting, too.
He locks up, and then we start off toward the small café on campus. It’s not the first time we’ve gotten coffee together, but other people are usually involved and there isn’t a layer of discomfort hanging around us.
“So, how’s your article coming?”
“Good,” I explain. “I had this idea about polling some of the student body. Different segments, for instance, athletes versus science majors versus a random slice. Then comparing the data.”
“That would be cool.”
He doesn’t sling his arm casually over my shoulder or bump me with his elbow like Zaiah would. He isn’t the type, but if he was, it would make things so much easier.
“How are classes?” I ask because I’ve only crushed on this guy for two years and that’s all I can think to bring up. Before I can eye-roll myself to death, I remind myself that the alternative is letting him know how much of a creeper I’ve been and sling all of his interests out at once.
“They’re okay. I’m ready to graduate and start my life, you know?”
“Any job prospects?”
“Just worrying about graduating for now. I’ll have to stay with my parents, then do the whole send out resumes and stuff. What about you?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking of freelancing for a bit.”
We finally arrive at the coffee shop, and it’s overrun with people. Luckily, a spot opens up in the far side when two girls wearing workout gear stand to leave, so we take it, and Clark offers to get my coffee.
My leg jumps up and down as I watch him walk up to the counter. Everything I wanted is happening right now, and I’m overwrought with awkwardness. It’s like I’ve never talked to a guy in my life, let alone the one I’m on a date with.
“Hey,” a voice says.
I peer up to find one of Zaiah’s teammates, but I’m not sure of his name. “Oh, hey.”
He sits down. “It was so cool seeing you at the game. We were all talking about it.”
I laugh, nearly choking. My gaze flits to Clark at the counter and back to the seat he’s supposed to occupy that’s now been confiscated by a much larger frame. “Lovely, I can imagine.”
“The Jameses are hilarious. You took it in good stride.”
“Thanks. I think the blue hair really fit me.”
He pulls out his phone, taps it a few times, and then brings up a picture of the four of us yelling. I have the most ferocious look on my face.
I cringe. “Tell me not everyone has seen that picture.”
“My parents took it. They were sitting a few rows ahead of you guys, and no, I won’t tell you that I sent this to the team group chat.”
My stomach squeezes. “You didn’t…”
“I did.” He grins, and he has a charm about him because I really want to throw up right now, but he’s making me feel better about it. “It was too good to pass up. Plus, it was nice seeing someone in the stands other than family.”
I rub my temples, still staring at me in my open-mouthed, God-knows-what-I-was-screaming glory. “Glad to be of service.”
“Is that you, Len?”
I sit straighter, my elbow slamming down on the table. Clark’s holding two cups of coffee and peering at the picture.
Zaiah’s teammate stands. “I take it this is your seat?”
Clark laughs, still peering at the picture. “You look ridiculous.”
Zaiah’s teammate gives him a funny look. “It was all in good fun.”
“Who are the others? Is that your family?”
I stare at him, sure I’ve mentioned before that it’s only me and my dad, which would mean this obviously couldn’t be my family. But it’s okay. He can’t be expected to remember every little thing about me. “No, that’s Zaiah’s sister and parents.”
“Oh, jeez.”
My stomach twists. Zaiah’s teammate is still giving Clark some major side-eye and shuts the screen off, finally taking the picture away. He steps out of Clark’s path, his look frosty. “See you later, Len.”
“Yeah, later.”
Clark offers me a cup, and I wrap my hands around it, watching Zaiah’s teammate leave the café. I’ve only been Zaiah’s roommate for a few days and the hockey team already knows me. Wonderful.
Clark shakes his head, then takes a sip.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t seem the type.”
I’m sure I should come back with something flirtatious, but my mind is stuck on type and won’t move on.
I can’t do anything right. Not studious enough for Clark. Not pretty enough for Zaiah. Not that that matters now.
When am I ever going to be enough just the way I am?