“Practice got cancelled tomorrow afternoon, but I still need a workout,” I say. “You told me last fall that you wanted to learn to play. If you still do, I could teach you.”
Her eyes light up and that adorable dimple makes an appearance.
chapter ten
“So, they aren’t called goalies?” she asks me.
“No, they are, but we also call them keepers now,” I say, explaining the different soccer positions.
“And you’re a center forward.”
“Yes. Sometimes we’re called strikers,” I say. “So, a typical formation would be three defenders, four mid-fielders and three forwards. But that can change around a lot.”
We make our way down the large practice field that sits mostly vacant today, with the exception of a few young kids and their dads playing down on one end. I’m happy that the weather cooperated with an un-seasonably mild day today. I was so looking forward to seeing Baylor’s shapely legs in a pair of shorts again. She didn’t disappoint me when she stripped out of her track pants once we got sufficiently warmed up.
“So the center forwards have the most important job,” she says.
“No, not really.” I shake my head. “I mean, yes, we score the majority of the goals, but if we didn’t have great defenders and mid-fielders setting up those goals, we wouldn’t be worth a shit. Soccer is all about the team and player coordination.”
I’m juggling the ball with my feet and knees as I explain things to her. Her eyes become mesmerized by my masterful skills. It makes me want to keep it up all day long, just to have her staring at me.
We take a few laps around the field as I show her how to dribble the ball, then we work on passing and shooting. She’s a quick learner and she’s obviously well-conditioned with all the running she does, so she has no problem keeping up with me. “You’d be a great mid-fielder,” I tell her. “They generally have to do the most running in a game.”
She smiles with pride.
A stray ball comes flying at Baylor and before I can warn her, it smacks her in the back. I run over. “Shit, are you okay?”
She laughs, bending over to retrieve the ball for the group of kids behind us. “I’m fine, Gavin.” She passes the ball back to what looks like a seven-or-eight-year-old boy. She does it with skill, using the inside of her foot just like I taught her.
The boy immediately passes it back to her and they fall into a jog, passing it back and forth until one of them misses. One of the other boys comes up to me and asks if I’ll show him how to do that thing where I bounce the ball up and between my knees. These kids are obviously new to soccer.
Baylor and I spend the next hour teaching the kids how to play. And even though she is only just learning herself, you’d never know by the way she’s helping them. I look in awe at how these young boys hang on her every word. But, then again, I know how they feel. I’m completely under her spell myself.
After a few parents thank us for the instruction and the kids leave the field, Baylor says, “Bring it on, McBride.”
We start to play a little one-on-one with her trying to steal the ball away from me. Of course I go easy on her, but not as easy as I thought I’d have to. I break into a run down the field. She comes up alongside me and tries to kick the ball out from in front of me, causing me to stumble and take her down with me.
Once I realize she’s not hurt, but is merely lying down next to me to catch her breath, I say, “That’s a definite yellow card for you, Mitchell.”
“What?” she protests breathily. “That was all you and your two left feet.”
“My two left feet. I don’t think so,” I quip.
She elbows me and I feign injury. “Watch it or I’ll give you a red card,” I tease.
Then she climbs on top of me, holding me down playfully and says, “You’ll do no such thing, McBride.”
It takes me all of two-point-five seconds to turn the tables on her. I grab her and flip her underneath me in one movement. We stay like this and stare at each other as our chests heave while we continue to catch our breath. I look down at her incredible eyes with the myriad of colors that are now reflecting the blue sky. Her hair is slightly matted with sweat and her shirt is now dirty with grass clippings. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Fuck the plan.
I lean down to her slowly and put my weight on my elbows while my hands come up to grasp the sides of her face. She blushes and bites her lip. As I draw closer, her gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth. Her tongue comes out to swipe across her lips in anticipation of what I’m about to do. Because I am about to kiss her. There is no way in hell I’m not going to kiss this girl.
When my lips meet hers, it’s fucking Christmas and I’m unwrapping the biggest, best present under the tree. Her lips are soft and I let mine rest against them for a few seconds just so I can get my mind around this. I want to imprint this moment in my memory so I’ll never forget it. I start to move my lips around on hers, first kissing the corners of her mouth, then kissing her top lip and finally, I take her bottom lip between mine and gently suck on it.
She lets out a tiny groan that comes from deep inside her throat and I’m instantly hard. She parts her lips for me and our tongues fall into this synchronized dance that has me wondering if we have done this before and I merely forgot. It seems natural, accustomed . . . familiar.
She brings her hands up and runs them first along my back, then my shoulders. Then she runs her fingers through my hair and I know right now, right this second, that I never want another girl to put her hands in my hair. Just her. Just Baylor Christine Mitchell.
I reluctantly pull my lips away from hers when my voice of reason tells me we might get arrested if we don’t stop this. We are still breathing heavily; even more-so now than when we were playing soccer. I smile down at her. She smiles back at me. I finally find some words. “Will you go on a date with me, Baylor Mitchell?” I ask. “Tonight?”
I know her answer before she says it, thanks to the dimple that takes residence in her cheek. “Yes, Gavin McBride, I’ll go on a date with you.”
I lean down and whisper into her mouth, “I’m paying.” I kiss her again before she can argue with me. I feel her smile against my lips.
I don’t get nervous. Gavin McBride doesn’t get nervous over girls.
So, why is my hand shaking when I bring it up to knock on her dorm room door? Fuck. Get it together, I tell myself. I take a few deep breaths then roll my eyes at myself when her next door neighbor catches me doing it.
The door opens. “Oh, hey, Gavin,” says Tori, Baylor’s roommate. “Come on in. Baylor just popped next door to get something from our neighbor.
I feel slightly sick. Not the neighbor that just witnessed me being all douchy at the door, I hope.
“Thanks, Tori.” I enter her room and sit on the futon that’s underneath Baylor’s bunk. I’ve only been here once before. On a movie night a few weeks ago, she brought me in here to get a couple of sodas and introduce me to her roommate. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and look around the room as I wait for her. It’s definitely a girl’s room, yes, but it doesn’t look like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol exploded all over it like some of the sorority girls I know.
I see a lot of magazines. Not Vogue and Cosmo or any of that shit. They are mostly journalism magazines and even a copy of Time. I look at Tori. “Are you a journalism major, too?”
She nods. “Yes, most of the girls on this floor are. It’s why we chose to live here.”
“Hmmm,” I mumble, thinking back to last year when all the freshman soccer players lived on the same floor.
I realize she’s glaring at me and I stare at my watch in hopes that Baylor will interrupt this awkwardness soon.
No such luck. “What are your intentions with Baylor?” Tori asks point blank.
“My intentions?” I ask.
Her appraising glare pins me to the futon. “You must know that your reputation precedes you.”
I shake my head at her. “That’s old news, Tori,” I explain. “I know I was wild as a freshman, but I’m not like that anymore.”
“Really,” she says, skeptically, with hands on her hips for emphasis.
I raise two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“So, you changed your philandering ways?” she asks. “Just like that?”
“Not just like that,” I say. And at the risk of playing my hand too soon, I add, “When you meet the one person who seems like she could be more than just a conquest, it changes things.”
She stares me down, assessing my truthfulness when the door opens and Baylor walks in. Tori purses her lips at me and then turns to Baylor. “Okay,” she says. “He’s good.”
I laugh. “Was I just being vetted by your roommate?”
“Huh?” Baylor asks, clearly confused.
“You two have fun,” Tori says, handing Baylor her coat and pushing us out the door.
Baylor walks down the long dorm hallway ahead of me. She has her hair down and I wonder if she knows that’s how I like it. She’s wearing jeans that flatter her petite figure, and under her coat is a dark-brown sweater that I’m sure will make her eyes look like chocolate.
This isn’t the first time she’s ridden in my truck. It’s not even the first time I’ve held the door open for her as she gets in. But it’s different this time and we both know it. She looks down at me as she climbs up into the passenger seat. With that adorable blush creeping up her face, she says, “Thank you.”
“For helping you into the truck?” I ask. “No problem.”
“For tonight,” she says. “In case I forget to thank you later, I just wanted to let you know what a great time I had.”
I smile up at her as I shut the door.
Shit, I think, walking around the front of my large pick-up truck. I’d better do a damn good job at living up to her expectations.
chapter eleven
When Baylor’s eyes light up as we pull into my favorite burger joint, I figure we’re off to a good start. We grab a booth in the far corner and glance at each other over the top of our menus. I contemplate sitting right next to her, but then I wouldn’t get to look at her gorgeous face all night.
When the waitress comes to take our order, Baylor unabashedly orders a cheeseburger and fries. “I’ll have the same. But, make mine a double. And bring a couple of chocolate shakes,” I add, knowing Baylor’s penchant for sweet drinks.
“Oh, yummy,” she says. She looks around the restaurant. The tables are adorned with black-and-red-checkered tablecloths. The lighting is low and the muted music coming from overhead is soft rock. The whole place is a contradiction. You’d expect steaks and fine wine on the menu at an establishment like this. It’s a forgotten gem and since it’s over the budget of most college students, it’s not rowdy and full of drunk underage kids.
“I love this place,” she says, her eyes returning back to mine. “It reminds me of our restaurant back home.”
“Oh, right,” I say, remembering what she’s told me about their small family restaurant back in Maple Creek. She grew up spending her nights and weekends working at ‘Mitchell’s’ alongside her younger sisters, Skylar and Piper. “So, tell me again why you chose journalism over the family business.” We’ve talked about it briefly in the past, but she’s never really told me why she wouldn’t want to follow in her parents’ footsteps.
“Growing up, and especially when I was younger, owning the restaurant was a struggle for my parents. But, it was their dream so they did everything possible to make it happen, including borrowing against their house and all of our college funds.” Her face turns happy when she says, “Then one day, this woman comes into the restaurant and orders the special. We had no idea who she was. Like most patrons, we thought she was simply passing through on her way to the city. But two weeks later, an envelope shows up with a newspaper article from the New York Times talking about a mom-and-pop restaurant in Maple Creek. Our restaurant. The article raved about the food, the service, the ambiance. After that, business picked up ten-fold and my parents never again had to worry about the impending foreclosure that our house was under.” She picks thoughtfully at her napkin. “It was then that I understood the power of journalism. I vowed to be someone who would bring joy to people with the words I could write.”
I’m stunned once more by this girl sitting in front of me. But before I become a driveling fool and tell her again how amazing she is, the waitress arrives with our food. I watch Baylor take a big bite out of the cheeseburger that is almost too large for her small hands to hold. Juice trickles down out of the side of her mouth and I have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching across the table to wipe her chin and then lick the savory taste of her off my finger.
“Umugud,” she mumbles through her mouthful of meat as her eyes roll to the ceiling.
I watch in complete fascination, my own food forgotten in front of me, as she enjoys her first bite of what I’m now sure will be her favorite burger as well.
I love that she ordered a cheeseburger. Karen and her friends would have ordered a side salad with that vinegar crap on it. Why do they think it’s sexy to be so thin? Do they think guys want to feel a skeleton when we touch them? I remember the few times when I’ve had my arms around Baylor, feeling her soft curves under my hands, and suddenly I start to get hard under the drape of the black-and-red-checkered tablecloth.
I pick up my own burger and quickly eat it. I think about the new soccer formation my coach had us try last week at practice. Anything to calm down my rising, uh, problem.
Before I know it, my plate is cleared and I find myself reaching over to grab one of Baylor’s fries. She playfully smacks my hand away. “What?” I say. “Don’t all girls share their food on dates?” I inventory what’s left on her plate, knowing she’ll never be able to finish the mammoth burger that is barely half-eaten and the mound of fries that is still sitting next to it.
“I don’t know, do they?” she asks, picking up and tearing apart a fry, popping half of it into her mouth. “I’m not all girls, McBride.”
“No, you are definitely not, Mitchell.”
She motions to her plate. “I’m not against sharing,” she says. “I just need something in return.”
I look at my empty plate and then back up at her with questioning eyes.
“Not food,” she says. “Information.”
I raise an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I ask you a question and when you answer it, you get some of my fries,” she says.
I laugh. “Twenty Questions, huh?”
“Not really.” She shakes her head. “Just stuff I’m curious about.”
I look at the large pile of fries on her plate. “Fire away, then. I’m still hungry.”
She bites her lip and rolls her eyes from side to side, clearly trying to think of what she wants to know about me first. “Okay. When did you first start playing soccer?”
Nobody has ever asked me that question before. Not even my coaches. I can remember the day with an almost painful clarity. “When I was five, my dad was out of town at some judges convention,” I say. “Whenever that happened, it was like Christmas at my house. My mom and I would do things that my dad normally wouldn’t allow. He was always of the mind that kids had to earn things. And let’s just say he wasn’t impressed by my rebellious tendencies.”
I roll my eyes at the memory of my dad trying to control a rambunctious five-year-old. “My mom took me to a sporting goods store and told me to pick out anything I wanted. I remember walking around and seeing all the baseball bats and football helmets. Then I saw a dad and his boy. They were bouncing a big black-and-white ball back and forth between them on their knees. They were smiling and laughing. They looked so happy. I wanted that. I wanted what they had. And my five-year-old brain thought that just maybe the soccer ball was the key to it.”
I look over at Baylor and see her sad eyes on me. She knows by now what a douchebag my dad is to me, so this is
probably no big surprise. “I’ll never forget the sad look on my mom’s face that day. I didn’t understand it then but she knew. She knew why I had chosen the ball and she also knew that I would never get to experience what that little boy had.
“The next day, my mom took me to my first soccer game.” I laugh. “Ironically, it was at Baylor University,” I say, smiling over at her. “So, that’s when I started playing. You would have been hard-pressed to find me not in the possession of a soccer ball after that.”
Baylor looks at me with a face full of empathy while she pushes her entire plate of fries over in front of me. I grab a few and push it back to her. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Bay. My father has always been a pretty good example.”
“What?” she asks, clearly confused.
“He’s a good example of what kind of dad I don’t ever want to be,” I clarify.
She nods at me in understanding. “So, you want kids, huh?” she asks, looking down at her half-eaten plate of food.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “Well, not now, but someday.” I laugh. She giggles. We stare.
“Next question,” I say.
She cocks her head to the side and purses her lips. I can tell this is going to be a good one.
“When was the last time you went on a date?” she asks.
“You really want to go there, Mitchell?”
“I do.” She nods her head.
I blow out a breath. “I guess technically, never.”
“Technically?” she asks.
“Baylor, you have to understand something about me,” I explain. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. And a lot of what you heard is probably true.” I lower my eyes in shame, vowing to be as truthful as I can with her. “I’ve never really dated a girl before. Yes, I’ve obviously been with a lot of them.” I cringe at my own words. “But, I never met anyone that I wanted to take out on a real date. Before you, that is.”
She stares at me in contemplation. Then I realize I probably didn’t really answer what she was asking. So I add, “If you’re asking when was the last time I was with a girl, it was last August. The weekend before I plowed into you at Murphey Hall.”
Purple Orchids Page 7
