Page 134 of So This Is War
“I’m good, but thanks, Jessica. I appreciate it.”
“Of course, anytime.” And with that, she walks down the aisle and tends to some of the other players.
Levi brings his attention back to me, and I can’t help myself when I say, “Are you going to call her?”
He lifts one brow in a quizzical way. “How do you know I have her number?”
“The other flight attendant, Giselle, told me when she asked if my dad was single.”
“She wants to go out with Coach Wood?” he whispers and looks toward the front of the plane. “In all the years he’s been my coach, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him even look at a woman.”
“I haven’t seen him glance at a woman either since my mom left either. I think he’s dead inside when it comes to romance.”
“What did you say to Giselle?” he asks, more invested in this than I thought he’d be.
“She could go for it, but I wasn’t giving her a lot of hope.”
Glancing toward the front of the plane again, he asks, “Does he even understand what a date is?”
“At this point, I think he considers the term date more of something he eats to help with constipation rather than an opportunity for conversation and a meal.”
Levi lets out a roar of a laugh, and the sound travels through me, all the way down to my toes, warming me up.
“Please tell me he eats dates for constipation.”
“Are you really interested in my dad’s bowel movements?”
“Oddly, yes. Anything to give me that edge when he’s yelling at me, spittle flying off his lips and right onto my eyeball.”
“Has that happened?” I ask.
“Several times. So give me the goods. Does he have a secret stash of dates when he has a sicky belly of poop?”
I flinch in disgust. “Please, don’t refer to it as that.”
He chuckles. “Well. . .”
I twist my lips to the side, pretending to give it some thought, then I lean closer to him and say, “He has a date every morning and night to stay regular.”
“Is this before or after he blesses his underwear?”
I grin. “Before.”
“Good to know.” He nods.
“What about Jessica?” I ask, bringing it back to the conversation he clearly avoided.
“What about her?”
“You going to call her?”
He rubs his hand along his jaw and shakes his head. “Not my type.”
“Jessica’s not your type?” I ask, flabbergasted. “I feel like she’s everyone’s type.”
“Not mine,” he says.
“Is that so? Then what is your type?” I ask.
