I stare at Hannah for a moment as though seeing her for the first time. “So do you want to date Ethan or just sleep with him?”
“Date him. Just because I don’t want to get married until I’m thirty doesn’t mean I want to casually hook up with every willing participant.”
“I didn’t mean you do.” I kind of did. My perception took a one-eighty, and now I’m back to being semi-unaware of everything about my roommate.
She must recognize my indecision because she sits forward in her seat, so we’re at eye level. “I like Ethan, and if he’s a nice guy, I’d like to date him, but I don’t want to be one of these girls who plan to get married after graduating. Not that I’m trying to bash girls that do, it’s just that’s not my goal. I want to go to Scotland for a year, and then Belgium, and Tokyo. I want to start my own company and own a house before I get married.”
“But what if he’s perfect?”
“Ethan?”
“Or a guy you meet tomorrow or next month or next year or when you’re twenty-five.”
She shakes her head. “You know me. I’m goal motivated.”
I want to mention that I am, too, but it doesn’t make me hate public speaking any less.
“Do you know what’s going on right now?” Hannah inclines her head toward the field where the formation has broken, and the guys are beginning to scatter.
My gaze shifts over each of the players like a pinball, searching for the player with the tape that runs along the back of his arm from bicep to wrist that makes it easier to pick Nolan out.
I spot him at the same moment the ball is passed to him. He catches it easily, turning with a fluidity and grace that would make even a ballet dancer envious, and then he runs. It’s a jog that makes my heart thrum, realizing he’s going to be caught in a matter of seconds—he has too far to go and four guys from the defense have pegged their sights on him and are about to converge and trap him like a scene off Animal Planet.
“He has to get across the field?” Hannah asks, her disbelief audible.
The first defender to reach Nolan leaps. I cringe, waiting for the collision, but Nolan shifts and darts out of the way. He runs faster, in the direction of another defender which has me certain he’s color-blind or oblivious. That defender runs in a dead sprint, straight for Nolan, and at what feels like the last possible second, Nolan stutter steps, slowing himself as the defender throws himself at Nolan with a missed tackle. Nolan leaps over him, sprinting now down the field, straight into the endzone.
The crowd loses it, and as Nolan throws both hands in the air, they get even louder.
“How did we not know he was Katie’s brother?” I ask.
Hannah looks at me with a tight-lipped smile. “I think we have to ask her, but my guess is people act differently when they find out your brother’s one of the most sought-after athletes in the country.”
My attention is glued to Nolan as he tears off his helmet and makes another celebratory move that the crowd is starved for. They love the points and the potential win, but they are enamored with him.
“How are we going to find out where they’re going tonight?” Hannah asks.
“Nolan gave me his number and said to text him when the game was over,” I don’t mention that he’d scrawled it on “The Shining” poster he’d taped to my back window this morning. I was grateful no one heard me scream.
Two more posters were waiting for me, one in the hall closet where we keep spare toiletries and cleaning supplies, and another outside my bedroom window. I’m not even sure how he put it there. I didn’t know we owned a ladder.
My trip wire in the fridge was an amateur move if each of his pranks is this thorough.
We watch the rest of the game, catching up during timeouts and breaks on how we each spent our summer. Hannah is from Connecticut and spent the past three months at home—summer is the only time she can stand Connecticut, claiming it’s too cold. She’s an only child and spent most of the summer gaming and working on hacking projects. I tell her about Lanie being pregnant and my dad adding the additional space in the office as a nursery that Mom and I decorated with elephant-themed everything.
Each time Camden’s offense has possession, our conversation wanes and we focus on the game. Ethan doesn’t get any minutes, but Hannah doesn’t care. She still squeals a little when he stands from the bench and pats another player on the shoulder. I Google him to get a better look. He has reddish brown hair, hazel eyes, and a friendly smile.
“He’s cute right?” Hannah asks looking over my shoulder.
I nod.
“God, I hope he’s not a dick.”
As the minutes tick down, the crowd is split into two groups: those who race out of the stadium, likely to beat traffic or get to a party knowing the twenty-point lead won’t slip, and those who linger, wanting to soak in every second of the win. We’re part of the latter group, unsure where we’re going.
“Did you text him?” Hannah asks.
“Do you think I should wait? Don’t they have press after games?”