That Girl (That Girl, #1)(42)
“Why are you smirking?” I hiss into his ear.
“I heard every word you just laid on Monica.”
“I quit my job.”
“Can I suggest we go bowling before you two try to make a baby in this booth?” Tiny asks.
“Bowling? Dude, I kick your ass every time,” Lincoln says.
“Can’t blame a fool for trying,” Tiny banters back.
“What do you say, Oakley Ann?” Lincoln asks.
“I’ve never been bowling,” I admit.
Jewels pops a slice of cheese from her salad into her mouth, and says, “Yay, I can outscore someone.”
Chapter 13
Cheering from 1,014 Miles
Today is game day, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t practically shitting my panties every thirty minutes. Lincoln has arranged everything from the person picking me up, to my tickets, and the route I physically walk into the stadium.
Since our double date on Monday, I’ve wanted to tell Lincoln off several times because his over-planning of the event is way extreme. Deep down, I know he only wants the best experience for me, but I prefer to feel it from a raw point of view, and I want all of his attention and energy focused on the game.
Plan A was for Jewels to pick me up, and then we’d sit together in Lincoln’s family’s season ticket, seats since he knew his parents would be in Dallas for Levi’s game. That was until Jewels texted me.
Jewels: Hey, my pops is coming in today from a long haul run and I need to tell him about the baby.
Me: Okay
Jewels: Oh btw Lincoln gave me your number.
Jewels: I’ll meet you at our seats.
Jewels: Are you good with that?
Jewels: Did you die or something?
Her texts come in within seconds of each other while I’m trying like hell to simply type out one line back to her. This text shit sucks ass.
Me: Ok, I’ll just walk to campus. Good luck with your dad.
Jewels: Fuck, are you sure? I’ll try and find you a ride.
Me: :-/
Mentally, I pat myself on the back for using symbols to make a face. Wednesday night, Lincoln and I lay in my bed, and he schooled me on texting, from the way I was holding my phone to all different types of smiley faces. He told me I have a minimum of a five smiley face, three selfies, and two naughty texts quota to fill every day. He even went on to tell me he thinks he’d play better on the field with three naughty texts.
I think about texting him the change of plans, but decide not to. I don’t want anything to distract him, and my walking across town to campus definitely would. I guarantee if I texted him that I planned on walking, he would come pick me up.
This game means everything to him. I was also introduced to ESPN this week during our nightly make-out, talk, and cuddle sessions. He brought over one of the defensive linemen, and he hot-wired some cable in my room. Lincoln won’t admit it, but I know he wants to be on the highlight reel desperately. While watching this week, I heard his brother’s name mentioned over twenty times, and I wasn’t even fully paying attention. The comparison of Levi to his father’s quarterback career was always at the center of conversation. Lincoln’s dad was right about one thing, you wouldn’t even know he has another son.
Lincoln bought me enough college gear to dress me from head to toe. Every night, he brought home something new for me from face tattoos to necklaces and a jersey to wear to the game. I’m going to have to forgo the school color flip-flops he bought and settle for my green Cons to walk across town.
Looking in the mirror, I give myself a pep talk. “You are worth it, and you, my dear, are going to watch your boyfriend play in a college football game. People are going to stare and whisper, and Monica may even try to start shit, but you are going to go and plant your ass in seat 22, Row E, Section 104.”
My hair has grown out a bit, but is still short enough to funk it up. I have my temporary team tattoo is on my cheek, and the number twenty-two is proudly displayed on my jersey. Turning to the side, I peer at the back of the jersey and the name Wilks printed in bright white letters above his number.
“I love you, Lincoln Wilks,” I whisper.
My phone beeps, alerting me to a text. Picking it up, I see his name.
Lincoln: Selfie and some naughty words, please.
Giggling out loud, I hold the phone up and snap a selfie, making sure to get his jersey in the picture, and then send it.
Me: I’m not wearing any underwear.
Lincoln: oh f*ck me.
Me: Get your head in the game! See you soon.
Lincoln: Can’t wait to run my hands down those little white shorts.
Me: Goober! Bye.
Oh shit, I better take my underwear off now. I was just trying to think of the sexiest thing I could, and I’ve heard that line in a movie before. The shit I get myself into.
Walking down the street, I feel as if every car passing knows I’m not wearing any underwear. I feel naked as hell and want to stop at the next department store and buy a pair of panties and a new bra. It’s early Fall and roasting-ass hot, and my boobs are dripping with sweat from the blazing sun beating down on this dark green jersey. The only thing saving me is the tiny holes all over it.