Page 35 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
I look up when he parks. It’s a cute brick building with a sign above the door readingMaple Sugar Diner.
I push the door open with my shoulder and slide out before he can say a word. I grit my teeth at the pain that shoots through my ankle when my flip-flop hits the parking lot. But I soldier through it, limping to the sidewalk.
“Peyton. You okay?”
“Fine.” I hurry toward the door, desperate to get weight offmy ankle.
He tries to grab my elbow, but I yank it away. His stare bores into the side of my face, but I ignore him.
He opens the door for me, and I step inside. The smell of pancakes and coffee makes my mouth water.
This time, I don’t fight him when he grabs my elbow and guides me to a table in the back. I slide into the booth, then he slides in across from me.
“Get your ankle up.” He moves like he’s going to grab it, but I lift it and place it on his booth. I angle myself so my ankle faces away from him.
He blinks at me, then opens his mouth.
The waitress comes over.
“Hey, sugar. My name is Tabitha. I’ll be your waitress today.”
She doesn’t look at me. Her body—and stare—is directed at him.
I roll my eyes. Irrational jealousy shoots through me, but I stomp it down beneath my sore ankle.
She can have the broody goalie. I don’t need his hot-and-cold behavior.
“Peyton. What do you want to drink?”
I blink at the menu, having no idea when it was set in front of me. “Oh... um...” I flip it open and spot the drinks. “Iced caramel latte.”
He orders, and then she disappears.
I study my menu, ignoring Daltyn. He’s staring at me. I feel it.
“What are you going to get?” His tone is softer than I’ve heard it all morning. It reminds me of the guy last night.
But I’m not falling for it.
Tabitha returns with our drinks, sparing me from having to answer.
She takes our order and menus, thenflirts with Daltyn some more before she finally leaves. I suck down my coffee to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.
When she’s gone, Daltyn tries to talk to me again. Luckily, I’m saved from conversing with him when my phone rings.
I grab it, then frown at the screen.
My boss.
Why’s he calling me on a Sunday?
“I have to take this.” I get up from the booth, limping toward the bathroom, and answer.
“Peyton. It’s John Martin. I’m so sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I wanted to give you an update.”
“Hi, John. Yeah. No problem.”
I lean against the wall, my heart sinking as he tells me how bad the damage is.
