“I’m a bit afraid to kiss you.” Cannon laughs out nervously, leaning against his steering wheel and nodding toward my dad’s figure.
I sigh.
“Is it because he’s your coach? Or is it because he’s my dad?”
Cannon mulls it over for a few seconds, drawing his brow in before meeting my gaze in a snap.
“Definitely both.”
He takes my hand again and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the inside of my wrist and lingering there just long enough to signal that in any other situation, this would lead to more. Way more.
“I really, really like you, Cannon Jennings from Indiana.”
A soft smile plays at his lips as he lowers my hand, his thumb grazing along the tender skin where his kiss left coolness behind.
“I really, really like you, Hollis Taylor from Indiana . . . by way of Staten Island.” His attempt to mock my accent is adorable, despite how bad he is at playing New York.
“You are so accent-less,” I tease.
“Hey, I’m from the southwest.” He pushes my arm playfully and I push back, my fingers raking down his arm and snagging on the material of his hoodie. I grab on and tug gently before letting go of his shirt and picking his phone up from the center console. I hold it up to his face to force it to unlock.
“Are we already at the snooping-on-each-other’s-phone stage of the relationship?” He laughs off his comment, but the sound fades quickly and his eyes go wide and dart away.
Relationship.
I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth to quash my nervous grin threatening to ruin my bluff while I pretend to be unfazed by his words. Inside my chest, though, is an epic house party, complete with strobe lights and twelve-inch woofers.
“I’m giving you my number,” I say, sending a text to me from his phone. I hold it up to face him when I’m done, showing that I typed the word RELATIONSHIP. The best thing about Cannon’s thick eyelashes is the way they shudder like butterfly wings when he’s nervous. He stares at the word without breathing for a few seconds. I hold it in the space between us to give him the opportunity to take it back. I’m not sure why I expect him to. Maybe because I know how many issues come with us having that word.
“You got a text message. You should probably answer that,” he says in a low voice that’s close to a whisper. His eyes flit up to mine, and I let my lip come loose so I can show him the smile I’ve been keeping in.
I take comfort in knowing the buzz in my back pocket is a message I sent myself but that he let me send. What’s strange is that I still plan on reading it—staring at that one little word—all . . . night . . . long.
“I should get in. You know, before my dad comes out.”
We both bow our heads with a nervous laugh.
“God yes, please. Don’t let him come out here,” Cannon says.
“I’ll see you tomorrow? Maybe, you want a ride to school?” He cocks his head to the side, leaning into the steering wheel, and the party in my chest puts on another song to keep things going.
“I’d like that,” I say.
No kiss. Not here where we’re being watched. Honestly, it’s not even that he is one of the players on my team, one of my dad’s players. It’s that I’m daddy’s girl, and having your father catch you getting a good night kiss is mortifying and cringe-worthy for everyone involved.
“You can leave your gear in the back, then. I’ll lock it up and bring it when I come get you in the morning.”
We nod our good-byes and I slip out the door, pushing it closed while I stumble backward like a drunk in from a bender.
Per the norm, my dad is relaxing with his feet up and one of his favorite coaching books cracked open in his lap. I’m no longer sure if the man has ever actually read it. I’m starting to think the only time it gets pulled out is when I’m in the driveway with a boy and he’s playing studious by the window.
“Have a good time?” He doesn’t look up from the pages as he asks. This is part of his act, too.
“I did. We ate roast. It was oddly delicious,” I say.
“Better than Meno’s?” He quirks a brow with that question.
“Let’s not get crazy now, Dad,” I say, putting on a serious tone. Meno’s was our pizza joint. It’s the place where my dad took the team after big games, win or lose. No amount of grease-soaked carrots in the world could ever compete with that.
“Well, I’m pretty beat. See you in the morning?” He stretches with a yawn as he stands from his chair, dropping his fake-read book on the side table.
“Actually,” I begin, waiting for him to pull the string on the small lamp to kill the light enough for me to tell him this. “Cannon is picking me up.”
His lack of response is almost worse than any word he could have said out loud. I’m relieved with he finally utters, “Oh.”
“Just tomorrow. I’m sure. Ya know, to be nice.” I’m babbling, making excuses, and thankfully he lets me off the hook. It’s weird to crush on a guy and want to admit it to your dad and gush with him the way you would a girlfriend. I do, though. Probably because Cannon is totally the kind of guy my dad would pick for me out of a lineup of eligible bachelors. I’ve seen the way he works with him, coaches him; he’s
