The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

“Yes. I thought for sure he’d recognize you. He was at the coffee shop when—”

“Got it. You don’t want them to know we’re friends, huh?”

I put an avocado in the basket and shook my head. “A week ago, I would have been mortified…no offense.”

He grunted. “None taken. And now?”

“I genuinely like you…as a friend,” I added quickly. “It’s just that I was hoping to explain our situation to Topher before I told everyone else. Although I did tell Tommy. But that was because I had to confess my sex guilt. It was eating me alive. How do you feel about pine nuts?”

“Um, I like them.” Blake glanced at the small bag of prepackaged nuts, widening his eyes in shock. “Those are fifteen fucking bucks. Is it worth it?”

“Yes. They’re fabulous.” I tossed them into the basket and surveyed the corn, aware of him beside me, seemingly deep in thought.

“I don’t like that you felt guilty. That kinda sucks, ’cause it was fun. Both times,” he said softly.

“It was, but—”

He put his hand up. “It’s okay. We don’t have to go over it again. C’mon. The chicken is this way.”

“Right. What about corn?”

“We don’t need corn. Only weirdos like corn in their salad.”

His teasing grin made it impossible to take insult, but defending corn was easier than discussing past indiscretions.

“Says the man who ate a plate full of brussels sprouts disguising itself as lettuce,” I retorted, following him out of the produce section. “Corn is perfectly appropriate in a salad. It’s simply a matter of complementing veggies and of course, the dressing. A nice vinaigrette…”

I talked while he nodded or rolled his eyes, brushing my arm as we traversed the market side by side. Somewhere on aisle three, amid rows of dried pasta and a shelf of boxed croutons, I silently acknowledged that the understanding between us had become friendship. Our alliance was no longer a form of penance.

When I wasn’t blinded by irrational lust, I liked to think I was a good judge of character, and my instincts told me Blake was a good man. I wanted him to do well and be happy because…I liked him.

I liked that he was drawn to people who were diverse and a bit offbeat. I liked that he was curious, intelligent, and open-minded. And I liked that he didn’t take himself too seriously. He wasn’t just another jock with a god complex; Blake was different.

My infatuation hadn’t gone anywhere. My body did not want to listen to reason where this man was concerned, but I was determined to stay strong, stick to the script, and do the right thing. And like a good friend, I’d even let him choose the salad dressing.

7

Blake

If anyone had told me I’d enjoy getting schooled by a pint-sized dynamo on the proper way to slice and dice various veggies in my own fucking kitchen, I would have thought they were psycho. But I had to admit, hanging out with Asher was highly entertaining. Hell, assembling a salad with him felt like an adventure.

Asher didn’t chop and toss ingredients into a bowl willy-nilly. Nope. He rinsed lettuce and washed veggies until they practically gleamed, then examined my knives and the cutting board before he got started. He got flustered when I insisted on helping.

“It’s my kitchen, Ash. I have to help. It’s like a law or something.”

“But I’m very good at solo salad-making. You’ll only get in my way, and I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that you don’t own an apron,” he griped, chopping a cucumber with a bit more force than necessary.

“Well, tough luck. You obviously need a lesson on how to share. I vote that we split up the veggies, throw them in the bowl, and call it even.”

Asher closed his eyes briefly and inclined his head. “How about if I take care of the chopping, and you can be in charge of slicing the chicken and toasting the pine nuts?”

I held his gaze with my brow furrowed and gave him my best badass stare down. “Fine.”

He drew an invisible line across the island, smiling tightly as he picked up a knife. “I call this side.”

“Sure.” I bit the inside of my cheek in an effort to keep a straight face before adding, “I like to tear at a rotisserie chicken with my fingers. You’re cool with that, right?”

Asher snapped his head my way. “I am not. Thanks for asking.”

I chuckled. “Any time. Want some tunes?”

I turned on the portable Bluetooth speaker I kept in the kitchen and blasted a peppy playlist. I shook my ass to an old Backstreet Boys song and gave myself a mental fist bump when Asher swayed his hips in time with the rhythm while he asked twenty questions about lacrosse.

“Where did the game originate? And what year? Do you know?”