Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(11)

“Yes. Nice. Pretty. Great.” I keep tacking on adjectives in hopes I hit on the right one, but I don’t inject enough enthusiasm in my voice. And my half-hearted efforts to compliment her kill her desire to study, if she ever had any in the first place. She buries her nose in the phone and after about five minutes of silence, I decide I’m thirsty.

As I wait in line, I stare at the board wondering what the best tasting coffee is for someone who doesn’t like coffee. Dark roast seems out. Maybe the light roast? Is that like a steak? The coffee beans are only slightly roasted and so still taste like whatever an uncooked coffee bean tastes like.

“Can I help you?” Lucy cocks her head to the side. Her long blond hair is caught up in a ponytail, the ones that I like wrapping around my fist while—

I cut off my train of thought when she clears her throat and delivers a well-mixed look of disdain and contempt as if she knows what I was thinking about just now and figures I’m not much good for anything else. Were her eyes this big last night? Were they this…soft? They look like a puppy dog’s eyes. Brown, warm, and endearing. If the puppy thought I was an idiot, that is.

“I’m trying to decide which is the best coffee for me.”

“I thought you didn’t drink coffee.”

“I don’t.” I shrug. Can I be more obvious? I don’t think so. Unfortunately, Lucy isn’t taking the bait. Another girl would be leaning against the counter, maybe twirling her hair around her finger. Lucy looks bored. That should bother me more, but instead I feel kind of energized by her dismissiveness. It’s sure as hell different. “You didn’t use my number.”

“I was studying. We have eight different kinds of tea.”

“I have the same problem with tea as I do coffee. Anything else?”

She opens her mouth to ask me what my problem is, then snaps it closed almost immediately. Hmm. Maybe I’m cracking her barrier a tiny bit.

“How about a spiced mulled cider?”

I perk up. “You can make that?” It’s January and as cold as a penguin’s ass, so spiced cider sounds great.

“Yup.” She scribbles something on the cup. I’m guessing it’s not her phone number because the vague smile she directs my way is the same one she gave the two students before me and undoubtedly the next one who will come behind me.

I shouldn’t feel a twinge of disappointment, but I do.

“Anything else?” she asks tentatively.

Because, like a dumbass, I’m still staring at her. I shift over to the glass case. “I could use an apple streusel.”

I’ll have to do an extra ten minutes on the sleds tomorrow to pay for that, but what the hell. We just won the championship. I have three weeks until spring ball starts. If I want to eat a piece of cake, this is the time.

“We make it fresh every day.” She recites the line with enough boredom to convey she’s tired of saying it. As she reaches inside the glass case with a pair of tongs and picks out the biggest slice, she asks, “Would you like it warmed up?”

“I don’t know, will I?” The words slide out, husky and provocative, and totally unintended.

Her eyes widen. “Ah, most people do.” She shoots me an irritated look and ducks around to heat up my cake while I feel like a total idiot. Not since sixth grade have I been so unpolished with a girl.

My phone buzzes.

Hammer: Where are u? The chicks at the Gas Station are so hot tonight. It’s like winter doesn’t exist for them. God bless band-aid dresses.

Me: Bandage.

Hammer: Same thing. Where are u?! Do you think the Christmas break makes these Western girls hotter? I don’t remember them being so fine last semester.

Me: How much have u had to drink? It’s only 8.

Hammer: Where are u?

I sigh. If I don’t answer him, he’ll probably run out of the Gas Station and start yelling my name like the guy who keeps yelling “Stella!” from that movie my mom loves so much. Huh. I wonder if that’s why Coach named his daughter that. I give myself a mental head slap for falling down that particular rabbit hole and punch in a response to Hammer.

Me: Brew place. Striking out.

Hammer: Noooooo.

Hopefully, Hammer’s drinking with a friend tonight.

My phone vibrates again but this time the screen displays the number fifty-five. It’s Masters. Damn, I’m going to miss that bastard when he leaves school at the end of this year.

Masters: Hammer texted me. Sounds like you need help.

I roll my eyes. What’d Hammer say?

Masters: Screenshotted the convo he could fit on one screen.

Me: Hammer’s shocked to find out that there are women outside the Gas Station. Worse, they have the word no in their vocabulary.

Masters: Situation appears dire. Look around. Do you see any adults?

I look up at Lucy, who’s talking to her co-worker and actively avoiding me. I think that’s a good sign.

Me: My ball size indicates I’m the adultest thing here.

The microwave dings, and she slides the streusel out. That’s not a good sign. I no longer have an excuse to loiter here at the counter. I point to the first thing I see. “I’ll take one of those, too.”

“It’s coffee cake. This version is made with actual coffee.” I don’t even have to look at her to know her expression is hovering between this guy is an idiot and when is he going to take his shit and go back to his table.