“I’m saying…that…” she starts, then stops, biting her lip. Her cheeks turn red, and I can hardly stand it.
“Come on, Cass,” I say, shaking her lightly to my side. “You can do it.”
She buries her face into my bicep, and it’s so cute that I can’t torture her any longer.
“Do you want to have a sleepover?” I ask, sleep the very last activity on my agenda. Cass nods her head yes against my arm, then pulls her face out just enough to look up at me. I kiss her forehead the second she does.
“Done,” I say.
“But I’m worried about Rowe. She’s kind of…nervous. I don’t know, I feel bad kicking her out of our room. That’s…that’s what we were fighting about,” she says, and I can tell she honestly does feel bad. And now I feel like a royal prick—because, as much as I should care about Rowe’s feelings being hurt, the only thing I can think about is getting back to Cass’s room, getting her alone, and getting her out of that damn yellow dress.
“She’s with Nate. Trust me, we would be doing those two a massive favor. My brother is pretty whipped by that girl,” I say. A smile cricks up in the corner of her mouth, so I kiss it. “I promise. Think of this as our good deed. Rowe will thank you. I know it.”
Shit, I hope she doesn’t punch her. Either way, I’m getting this girl into her room, alone, tonight. I don’t care if it fucking kills me. Well, yeah, I care if it kills me. Let me sleep with her first, then kill me, universe.
Here is why baseball is better than football. No matter how many runs your team is down by, you always have a sense of hope. One inning—one inning can change it all. You can score, and I’ve seen it, a dozen runs in an inning—especially at the college level. There’s no time limit. The game could go on all night, as long as it takes.
With football, there is a clock, and everything is measured against it. For example, McConnell is down by four touchdowns, and in a few minutes, it will be five. Given McConnell’s average time taken to score, there is not enough time left on the clock for the Bulls to make a comeback. It’s a mathematical improbability.
But here is why football is better than baseball—just for tonight. If this were a baseball game, I would have to stick it out. My competitive nature and the promise of hope—of a comeback—would keep me here. I hate missing a good comeback. But there is no hope. Not even an ounce. So I am free to leave, with Cass, to go to her room and do a shitload of dirty things to her that I have been thinking about pretty much non-stop for the last hour. So for tonight—and just tonight—I thank football.
Thank you, football. You are king.
Cass has just walked back over to sit next to me. I think she wanted to try to ease Rowe’s worry one last time, but from the looks of things, I don’t think it worked. Rowe has completely shrunk down in her seat, and Nate is staring at her, his hand over his mouth like he doesn’t know what to do. He knows…he’s just afraid.
I hope Cass isn’t backing out. When she sits down next to me again, I pull her close, reminding her, like a damn dog humping her leg. “I think this game is pretty much a lock. You?” I ask her, my lips close to her ear, close enough that I give the bottom of her ear a tiny tug with my teeth. Her lips quiver when I do.
Yeah, she’s still in.
“Let’s go,” she says, sliding her hand sensually across my chest as she stands and steps around me. I almost lose it right then and there.
“Mom, Dad—see you guys tomorrow at dinner,” I say, not wanting to linger. Our timing could not have been better as my parents were in the middle of a discussion with another couple. They pause just long enough to say goodbye and shake Cass’s hand, then we’re out the door.
The trip back to our dorm feels three times as far as the way here. Cass is making small talk. It’s cute. I can tell she’s nervous about this whole thing.
“Do you have a dog at home?” she asks when we get to the front door to our dorm. This is her fifth random question, and I’ve indulged every single one.
“…Yes, I can drive a stick shift. It just has to have a hand clutch…No, I’ve never had a Mohawk. But if you think it’s cute, you can shave my head. I don’t care.... I pierced my right ear in high school. But I don’t like wearing an earring. I’m a lazy shit, so the hole closed up.... My favorite color is green. No, blue! No, green. Monty Python joke, lame. Sorry.”
Finally, we get to the elevator. “We don’t have a dog. My dad’s allergic. Breaks my mom’s heart, because she loves animals. She visits the neighbor’s dog all the time,” I say, pulling her back on my lap as the elevator doors close. “Now, why are you so chatty?” I ask, tugging her hair loose from the tie that’s kept it in place on top of her head. Her braid unravels into these blond waves, and I swear to god she looks like a mermaid.