I mouth Dinner Sunday? to Austin and he nods his head. “Sure, Mom. Sounds great.”
We wrap up the call and I sink back into the cushions of the couch. Austin kisses my neck, but I’m not into it. Which makes no sense, because, hello, he’s hot AF.
It doesn’t take him long to notice my total lack of enthusiasm.
He pulls back, cupping my cheek in his hand. “What’s wrong?”
I toy with the hem of my shirt, hands shaking. “I’m worried about the competition. My mom just found out she’s not going to be able to make it on Friday to see me compete. It’s not her fault,” I say, the words flowing like word vomit. God forbid he think both of my parents are selfish assholes. “She has to work. But I have a really hard time with public speaking and…the prospect of presenting to such a large crowd without any support is terrifying. Last year I almost passed out.”
I don’t mention that while I didn’t pass out, I did puke my guts out in the bathroom before the competition started.
“Hey.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re going to be amazing. You play ball in front of a much larger audience every week. It’s no different.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow and devoid of humor. “Trust me when I say, it’s very different. If it was as easy as going out there and kicking a ball, something I’ve done countless times, I’d be money.” He doesn’t look convinced, so I try to explain it to him as best I can. “When I’m on the field, I’m just another pair of cleats, a player hidden by a helmet. Sure, the fans know it’s me. But they can’t see my face and I can’t see theirs. It’s all a blur. I’m practically anonymous.” I snuggle under his arm, letting his body heat warm my skin. “During the competition, I have to speak. To look the judging panel in the eye and present my ideas. Answer questions about the design and mechanics while they score my responses and assess my competency. What if I choke?”
It’s a real possibility. I’m the world’s worst public speaker. Sweaty palms, shaky voice, fifty-fifty shot of projectile vomiting like in that a cappella movie. The added pressure of knowing it’s my last chance to final isn’t helping. For four years, I’ve been dreaming of winning this competition. It’s my version of a national football championship. I want it so bad I can taste it. This must be how Austin feels every time he steps onto the field, knowing even one loss could keep him from his dream.
I have no clue how he shoulders this kind of pressure every day. He makes it look easy. Meanwhile, I’m over here contemplating a nervous breakdown.
“You won’t choke.” He says it with such conviction I almost believe him. “And I’ll be there with you.”
I look up at him from under my lashes. I’ve only really ever put my trust in my mom. This is a small gesture on his part, but it feels like a big one. Like a turning point. “Promise?”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Austin
I jog across the parking lot and duck into the grocery store, hoping they’ll have a decent floral department. I’ve never bought a woman flowers before, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Which means there’s a good chance I’ll screw it up. Like, aren’t there rules about colors? And flower types? I don’t want to send the wrong message.
Should’ve checked Google.
It’s times like this I miss my mom the most. She was big on philanthropy and was always planning one high-society fundraiser or another. She knew all about this kind of stuff. And she would’ve been thrilled to give me advice on how to be relationship goals, because she would’ve accepted nothing less from her only son.
Relationship.
The word still feels awkward and clumsy. I’ve been labeled a lot of things: All-American, son, quarterback, friend, captain, hookup. But never boyfriend. It’s not a label I expected. Not this year, anyway. A thrill races up my spine. Being able to say Kennedy is mine and mine alone tends to have that effect. And although they’ll never have the chance to meet, I know my mom would love her. Would love her brains and wit and the way she doesn’t take crap from anyone. Would love her giant heart and the fact that after so much hurt, she was still willing to give her old man a second chance, whether he deserved it or not.
I approach the floral department, taking in the rainbow of blossoms that fill the racks, and hope for the best. Because no way in hell am I going to text my roommates for advice. I’d never hear the end of it. Plus, I’m tight on time, despite cutting my last class of the day. I can’t afford to miss classes, but it’ll be worth it to see the smile on my girl’s face.
Kennedy’s worked so hard on this competition. Hell, she’s even taught me a thing or two about puppet robots and pressure sensors. She deserves to celebrate her accomplishment, win or lose. Not that she’ll lose. She’s been practicing with the robot every spare minute. Possibly to distract herself from the thought of public speaking. Either way, it’s paid off. She maneuvered it around the kitchen with expert precision last night while Becca and I cheered her on.
I scan the floral department, dismissing the potted plants and bouquets that look like Thanksgiving centerpieces. I choose a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. Orchids and roses, according to the shelf tag. They’re the palest shade of pink I’ve ever seen—almost ivory—and they’re perfect. I tuck them under my arm and head for the register. I need to hustle. I’ve only got a few hours to catch the competition and get to practice.
We’ve been busting
