“The probability of that is less than optimal.”
“But it’s not zero.” He gave me a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You want a turn?”
“No, thank you.” No way was I following his high-scoring performance, and no way was I risking this very tentative peace we had going.
“Okay. I’m going to use the vouchers for our drinks and popcorn then. That worked up a sweat.”
He wasn’t lying—little beads of moisture clung to his temple, and I had to shove my hands into my pocket before I could do something stupid like brush them away. We made our way to the small snack bar where the same clerk fetched us popcorn of indeterminate age, a soda for Conrad, and water for me. There were tables outside, under an awning, and we carried the food there.
The go-kart track was quiet, leaving us alone on the patio area. I was painfully aware of the purse of Conrad’s lips as he chugged his soda through a straw, the flex of his throat, the satisfaction in his eyes. The more he drank, the more I was desperate for one of the kids to run outside, aliens to land, planets to collide, anything to distract me from my sudden obsession with his mouth.
A thousand scenarios raced through my mind, each more improbable than the last, and I had to force my mind away from things that weren’t ever happening. Better to focus on things I could control. Like making sure Conrad wasn’t left in the lurch after the contest.
“I bet Professor Tuttle could help—”
“No solving my problems.” Conrad glared at me. “The various professors have already done enough. I made the mess out of my life. I’ll fix it.”
“You did? I thought you said your parents—”
“It’s complicated. Really complicated and I don’t want to go into it, not now when we’re having fun.”
“We are?” I wasn’t sure anyone had ever called me fun before.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I wish the tire hadn’t blown, but this place is kind of awesome. And once you’re not trying to kick my ass in Odyssey, you’re not bad company. Plus, it’s nice to not think about the tournament and all the other pressures for a while.”
Face heating from the compliment, I nodded even though if our positions had been reversed, I was pretty sure I would be unable to do anything but dwell on the pressures. “I get that. But if you want to, I don’t know, make a list later of your options, I could help.”
“Thanks.” Our eyes caught and held, and without waiting for my brain’s permission, my hand traveled to his arm, gave him what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze. His bicep was firm and solid, and my hand lingered far longer than advisable.
“I mean it. Winging it by putting everything on this win… That’s simply not prudent.”
“Not prudent?” Conrad laughed, and I quickly dropped my hand. “Uh, dude, don’t look now, but aren’t you doing the same thing? What’s your backup plan?”
Crap. He was right. I was in a similar predicament, wanting the tournament to give me direction, to solve my dilemma over the future for me. I bit my lip. Hard.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My moms have all sorts of ideas, but…coming up with a plan is hard. It’s like…everything feels second best. Choices I don’t want to make.”
“Exactly.” He gave me a fist bump, which landed on my wrist because I didn’t know it was coming. I flinched, making him laugh. And even that glancing contact was enough to have my skin sizzling again. I was utterly hopeless.
“I wish it were easier.” I didn’t just mean life and coming up with a plan, but also this, making sense of all this weird energy that had been building all day.
“Welcome to the Plan B Sucks club. Not finishing out at Gracehaven feels like admitting defeat. At least winning the tournament would be something. It’s the first thing that’s made sense since this whole mess started. First thing I’ve wanted other than to go back to Gracehaven and have things be exactly how they were.”
“I get that,” I said softly because I truly did. It just utterly sucked that we both wanted the same thing, needed it even. He laid his hand on top of mine. Not a fist bump this time. More of a squeeze. An understanding. And this time, my skin didn’t sizzle as much as melt, softening into the contact, welcoming his touch every bit as much as his sympathy.
“I’m sorry medical school didn’t work out.” His eyes were as warm as his voice. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that, but something about his tone made my chest contract with emotions I’d rather not try to name.
Our eyes met again, the energy surging in a way I didn’t quite understand, but definitely didn’t want to end. It felt as if I could look into his lake-blue eyes for years and still not see all his depths. They darkened, like they had back at the pizza place, making me wonder what he saw in my own gaze. Whatever it was, it must have pleased him because he hissed out a breath, the sort of sound I associated with uncovering a treasure in a game.