“You can’t double down on hate in one week, plus you’re always teasing us about some of the girl athletes we crush on.”
“That’s different,” I say, while lifting my taco to my mouth.
“How so?”
I bite down on the crunchy shell, chew, and then swallow before answering. “Because you actually have a shot at being with one of them. When have I ever been attractive to the male species? Have you ever seen me go on a date since we’ve known each other?”
“It’s because you’re too guarded to let anyone in,” Jerry says.
“And it wouldn’t hurt if you actually did something with your hair every once in a while,” Shane points out. “The low ponytail isn’t attracting anyone.”
“Hey.” I swat at Shane. “You try having this long hair. It’s impossible to work with. Plus, I braid it.”
“Yeah, you braid it or put it in a low ponytail. Have you ever thought about curling it?”
I chuckle. “I don’t even own a curling iron. I wouldn’t know how to work one if I wanted to. But that’s beside the point. Shouldn’t I want to be with a guy who’s attracted to my personality, not my looks?”
“Yes,” Jerry says, “but you also hide beneath these big clothes and massive amount of hair.”
“It’s because I don’t know how else to be,” I admit before I can stop myself. I set my taco down and rest my forehead on my hands.
“Milly.” Shane scoots closer and puts his arm around me. “It’s not a bad thing, being guarded, but you”—he pauses and then whispers—“uh . . . Carson Stone is staring at us.”
“What?” I snap as my stomach flips in on itself. I glance up just in time to see Carson with a tray of food and eyes set on me, walking toward a table of baseball players. When we make eye contact, I quickly duck away again. “Oh God, why?”
“He’s probably eyeing the feast you have in front of you made for seven grown men,” Jerry says, digging his grave just a little deeper.
“Shut it, Jerry,” I hiss and then lean into Shane. “Is he still looking? Please tell me he’s not still looking.”
“He just sat down—”
“Oh thank God.” I relax.
“But he’s still looking and he has a crease between his brow.” Shane snuggles in closer to me. “It looks like Mister I can’t hit a ball right now is jealous.”
“Are you high?” I whisper, ducking my head again, as if that will make me invisible. “He is not jealous. I’m not even close to his type. He’s probably wondering why I’m showing my face around the dining hall again after our embarrassing interaction.”
“Or he’s wondering why you’re sticking your face in Shane’s armpit,” Jerry points out.
“You could be his type. You don’t know.”
I laugh, shifting out of Shane’s armpit, because I might as well show a shred of self-respect. “Believe me, I’m not his type. I see the girls that hang around the locker room, looking for a stupid invitation inside. You know, the busty-bosomed ladies.”
“You’re busty,” Shane says. “You just refuse to show it.”
“No one needs to see my cleavage but me.” I keep my body turned so I don’t have a view of Carson, and I’m not tempted to look at him.
“Have your boobs ever seen the light of day?” Jerry asks.
“Has your penis?”
“How is that the same?” he asks, chuckling as Shane tenses next to me.
“They are the same thing. A penis is stuffed in your pants just like my—”
“Carson, wow, what brings you over here?” Shane asks, as my eyes widen and my pulse skyrockets, pushing my body temperature to an all-time high.
My breath catches in my throat from embarrassment and nerves as my fight-or-flight response kicks in. I hope to the Lord above Shane is just fucking with me, because if I turn to find Carson Stone standing at the side of our table just as I was talking about penises being stuffed in pants, I might just keel over from mortification.
Shoulders tense, lungs seized, I pause for a heartbeat waiting for Carson’s voice to answer the question. Maybe Shane really is pranking me, and for the love of God, let that be true.
“Thought I’d talk to Melanie here.”
Oh God. It’s not. And he doesn’t even remember my name. Could this get any worse?
“It’s Milly,” Shane says, deadpan.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Milly. That’s what I thought you said in the weight room but then I thought maybe I heard you wrong since not a lot of people our age are named Milly.”
Slowly turning toward him, I give him a brief wave, not even bothering to make eye contact. “My parents named me after my grandma.”
“Ah, nice.”
“Yup.” I stare at my smorgasbord of food and for once, hate my vengeful tactic. Tacos, three bags of chips, a Caesar salad with far too much dressing on it to consider it healthy, a side of fries with two small cups of ketchup, a cherry pie slice, and four cookies.
I want to die.
“So about today . . .”
Gaining enough courage to look up, I stare at his nose, because I can’t actually look him in the eyes at this point. “No need to talk about it. Everything is on the up and up.” I give him a thumbs up, hopefully dismissing him.
Apparently my brush-off has zero effect on him, because he doesn’t move.
“I really would like—”
“Seriously, it’s fine.” Sighing, I finally look him in the eyes and see those perfectly wicked pupils I’ve quickly realized could be debilitating to any woman who comes in contact with them. “Don’t sweat it. I’m actually”—I stretch my arms over my head and yawn—“man, I’m tired. I’m going back to my dorm.” I stand abruptly.
He gives me a once-over—because clearly, no matter the woman, they can’t help themselves—making me fully aware of the sweats and an oversized shirt I’m wearing. AKA, frumpy city. I tug on the hem of my shirt and sling my backpack over one shoulder as I push my glasses up my nose. Awkwardly, I pick up a cookie and hold it out to him. “Want a cookie to go?”
He stares at it and then looks back at me. “I’m . . .”
I don’t know what possesses me to do what I do next.
Maybe the nerves.
Maybe the sheer embarrassment from every odd interaction I’ve had with this man.
Maybe because I’m the most socially awkward human ever to walk the planet.
But instead of allowing him to finish his sentence, I smash the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie in his mouth . . . corking him shut with a baked good.
Err . . .
I stare at him in shock, eyes wide, lip trembling as he stands there, mouth full of cookie and a look of utter disbelief on his face.
Oh sweet Jesus, I hope he’s not allergic to nuts.
“Milly,” Shane whispers, no doubt out of pure shock.
Pretty sure I just blackballed us from ever talking to another baseball player for the rest of our time at Brentwood.
Laughing nervously, I adjust my glasses and say, “Good cookie, right? Yeah, delicious. Got to love the subtle hint of nuts. Hawaii in your mouth, am I right?” No answer. “Okay, then. I’ll . . . uh”—I thumb behind me—“I’ll be seeing you boys.” Because I can’t seem to control myself or anything I do, I salute Carson, bow my head, and make way back to my dorm, my cheeks burning in complete . . . there is no word adequate. Shame? Mortification? Distress? Misery?