So typical for him to beat himself up over it. “You guys still won.”
“By the skin of our teeth.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve never understood that saying. Our teeth aren’t made of skin. Like, where did that saying even come from? It doesn’t make sense.” I’m making no sense. Why am I talking about this when I really want to ask the important questions? Like:
How are you?
Are you happy?
Are you sad?
Is your life fulfilling?
Are you dating someone?
Do you miss me?
His lips curl the faintest bit. An almost smile. “Only you would overthink a cliché.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m vaguely offended.
“It’s what you do, Mandy. You’ve always overthought a lot of things.” The meaningful look he sends me is full of all sorts of unspoken messages.
Ones I don’t want to confront right now.
“You’ve done it, though,” I tell him, trying to change the subject. “You’re a big deal, Jordan. You’re one of the most respected quarterbacks in the NFL.”
“I don’t know about that.” He shrugs. Always modest. Like everything he does is no big deal, when it’s a huge deal.
“Please.” I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t laugh or smile.
“It’s only the start of my third season,” he points out. “We’ve had some good luck and a great team, including our coaches. They’re all waiting for me to screw up.”
“Who’s waiting for you to screw up? Your team?” I don’t believe it.
“No. Just—everyone. The media. The other teams. Their coaches. People who hate me.” He rubs his hand against his jaw. “There are a lot of people who hate me.”
“It comes with the territory.” I wish I could tell him that I would never hate him. But maybe he wouldn’t listen. Or worse?
Maybe he doesn’t even care.
“You’re right.” He stands up straighter, glances around. Appears pleased that no one notices us. “How are you, Amanda? How’s work?”
His quick change of subject doesn’t faze me. “It was busy today.” I wave a hand at myself. “I had to come straight to the game. That’s why I’m still in my Atlas polo.”
“It looks good on you.” His eyes are locked on my boobs, and I almost want to thrust my chest out.
I restrain myself. Barely.
In high school, I was flat chested. They grew a little bit over the years, but I can never say I have big breasts. Because I don’t. I have nice little 34B-sized boobs that don’t quite fill up the cup size; they look extra good in a padded, lifted bra, and that’s about it. My legs are better. They’re long and lean and I’m tall, which I used to hate, but I can now deal with it. Most guys I’ve gone out with have been the same height or a little taller. There had been that one blind date with the guy who was five-foot-four and wore lifts in his cowboy boots.
I’m not into cowboys. Or short men. This probably makes me prejudiced. Or sexist. I’m not sure which.
Jordan is taller than me. He’s six-foot-three, I think.
Oh please, I know he’s six-foot-three. I read his stats online. He weights 225 pounds. He could crush me.
I find that unnaturally arousing.