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I shrug. “I’m a quick study. Been thinking about picking up acting, actually. On the side. As a fallback option in case I get injured and can’t play hockey in the future.”
She pushes out a laugh. Not the sweet, genuine laugh I long to hear, but the dismissive kind I’m used to her directing at me.
Still, I’ll take it.
“Right,” she begins, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Actors have to work hard their whole lives to hone their art and become successful, but I’m sure you’ll just pick it up. As a fallback.”
“Glad you have as much confidence in me as I do.”
“I have confidence you’ll keep finding ways to prove yourself even more delusional and obnoxious than I already knew you were, that’s for sure,” she retorts.
“Just think,” I say, lifting my gaze like I’m falling into a daydream, “we’re both big movie stars and become a Hollywood power couple. Tuck and Olivia. They’d call us … Tolivia. Or maybe Oluck.”
She snorts. “You’ve got no luck if you’re hoping for that to ever happen.”
“We’ll lead a romcom revival starring in a string of romantic movies together. The audiences won’t be able to get enough of our chemistry. We’ll be a pop cultural phenomenon. As big as Taylor Swift.”
Another laugh pushes from her, still dismissive, but this time I don’t think I’m imagining the slight twitch upward I catch at the edge of her pretty mouth.
“Why don’t you go hit on Melissa instead?” she says, tilting her head towards someone over my shoulder. “She’d be happy with the attention, and she’s more your type.”
“She’s not my type at all,” I say, not turning my gaze from Olivia.
She narrows her eyes. “You didn’t even look.”
“Don’t have to. She have chestnut hair? Deep green eyes? Light freckles on her cheeks? Freckles that stand out even more when she blushes when I pay her a compliment, even though she tries not to? If not, then she’s not my type.”
Normally, Olivia will hit me with a comeback without missing a beat. This time, there’s about a beat and a half of silence between us.
“You do not make me blush, Tuck.”
“I’ll whip out my pocket mirror next time it happens and prove you wrong.”
“Why do I actually believe you carry one?” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Besides, lame pickup lines don’t count as compliments.”
“Lame?” I ask, making an offended face as I place my hand over my heart. “I spend a lot of time working on those pick-up lines.”
“Instead of that, have you ever tried asking?”
Her question comes out pointed and catches me off guard. My brow furrows. “Huh?”
“Asking someone on a date. You know, like normal people who aren’t full of themselves do. Instead of spewing lame pick-up lines and expecting the girl you’re throwing them at to immediately jump into bed with you? You haven’t tried that, have you?”
“Well, I …” I never get tongue-tied when talking to a pretty girl, but the accusation she just threw at me has the ring of truth to it. I’m feeling uncharacteristically tripped up.
“Has the thought ever crossed your mind that maybe if you just asked me out, maybe if you even did it politely …” she tilts her head, softening her voice to conclude, “I might actually say yes?”
Holy shit.
I never have flat-out asked her to go on a date with me, have I?
Is it possible that I wasted one hundred and eleven days waiting for this girl to succumb to the cocky playboy charm that’s always worked on everyone else, when really I just needed a different approach?
Could I have really sealed the deal with Olivia months ago by just … asking her on a date? Like a normal person would have?
As I see her green eyes softening, her body language opening up to me as beats of silence tick between us … fuck, I think the answer is yes.
I’ll kick myself for the wasted time later. Right now, I’m just worried about making up for it.
