Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

“And you don’t.” He seems to have a habit of making questions sound like statements. Matter-of-fact. Punctuated.

I like it.

“No. I’m a Monday kind of girl. I feel really unproductive on the weekends. How about you?” I’d twirl the cord of this phone if it had one like the phones did when I was younger before my parents let me have a cell phone. I would have to use the one in the kitchen so they could hear what I was talking about, and those times I talked to boys, I would wind that phone cord around and around until my mother couldn’t stand it anymore and gave me the universal sign for Cut it out!

Twirling cords. Flirty laughing. Nervous giggling.

“I had to be dragged out, too. I’m not a fan of crowds. My place has it all, so what reason do I have to leave?”

“So you live in one of those complexes with a pool and gym?” Must be nice.

Noah is silent. Then, “You could say that.”

That’s a weird way of putting it, but I’m quickly learning he is a man of few words.

Man. Woman.

That is how he sees us, not as a boy and a girl.

Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you. Claire’s half-drunken words of wisdom echo in my head.

How the hell do I find out if he likes me or not? I can’t come out and ask the poor guy—he’d probably hang up on me the same way he bolted at the stupid club!And he is impossible to read!

If only he’d taken off his sunglasses during our conversation today. Then maybe it would have been easier to tell.

Or not.

He had one hell of a poker face.

“You’re not very talkative are you?” I finally ask him, the art of conversation and being polite more fleeting with every passing, awkward second.

“Not really.”

“So then…why did you call to clear the air if you don’t have anything to say?”

I want to bang my head against the table—he is giving me banter blue balls! First rule of thumb when trying to get into a girl’s pants: excel at witty repartee. Second rule: don’t leave a girl hanging by not asking a follow-up question.

Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.

There you go again, Miranda, letting Claire get inside your head.

“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be completely honest. I’m not going to fault you for it, in fact, it could work in your favor.”

“Okay.”

“Are you only calling me because you want me to sell you the rest of my card collection and you’re afraid if you don’t kiss my ass, I’ll sell it to someone else?”

The line is just as quiet as it was before as he considers his answer. “That would seem like the most likely scenario, wouldn’t it?” he comments. “But no, that’s not the main reason.”

“What is the main reason?”

He walked right into that one, except—he doesn’t give me the answer I’m looking for. He doesn’t give me an answer at all.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

This is like pulling teeth.

“You’re right—I shouldn’t have called.”

Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.

“It’s not a bad thing that you called, it’s just confusing. But whatever, it’s okay. I…” I clear my throat and brace myself. “I just want you to know that I wish…”

His “Yeah?” isn’t more than a whisper, and I shiver.

“I wish…” I can’t say it. The words get lodged in my throat, too chickenshit to come all the way out.

“You wish what?” More whispers.

Why can’t I say it? It would be so easy to throw it all out there and never have to see him again!

“I wish Buzz had been you. I wish it had been the real you who came and bought the card that first day.” I stare up at the ceiling with its water-stained corners and crack at the center near the light. “I wish it had been you.”

“Why?” His voice cracks.

“It hardly matters now, right?”

9

Noah

I wish it had been you.

I wish.

It had.

Been you.

No one has ever wished me into any kind of daydream before, and to be honest, I’m not fucking sure what Miranda meant by it, because she wouldn’t explain.

After a few more awkward seconds on the phone, she abruptly ended the call the same way I abruptly ended our hug at the club, disconnecting without even saying goodbye.

“I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Click.

I stared at my phone for a good long minute, debating about calling her back, not wanting to feel the rejection if she refused to pick up. Wanting to text, but not knowing what the hell to say.

I shift my stance and adjust the batting helmet stuck on my skull, eyeballing the pitching machine on the mound in the center of the red dirt field. Our coach stands next to it and I know he’s gauging my readiness for the pitch.