Page 89 of Sportsball is for Lovers

“Do you think you can be that person for him?”

“I want to be.”

Why couldn’t I have had this realization when we were together? Being on a girls’ work trip is horribly inconvenient, but damn it, I have shit to do, and I can’t put my entire life on hold just because I suddenly realize I’m in love with the fucker.

Fuck.

I’m in love with him.

That was not part of the deal. This was not supposed to happen. Guess I’ve got to go buy a lottery ticket; the impossible actually is possible now.

This was supposed to be casual. No feelings. What the hell is he going to say when I turn the tables on him? This wasn’t what we agreed to.

But if there’s one thing he’s made clear, it’s that consent is compulsory. We both have to be into it, or it’s not happening.

And it’s not fair to him to change the game. If I’m having feelings, he needs to know. He can’t consent to casual-with-feelings or anything else if he doesn’t know about it.

Although I think the very definition of casual-with-feelings is that R word I’ve been avoiding for my entire life.

I can’t say it. Even to myself, I can’t conceptualize the idea of loving someone and having those feelings reciprocated.

It’s not “who could ever love me” or even “nobody loves me.” It’s just so unfathomable to believe that someone actually wants to love me. Nobody has ever said those words to me and meant it. Not the way my characters do.

Not the way I want them to.

“I—I need to go.” I scramble for my manuscript, shoving the papers into an orderly pile.

“Go where?”

“Boston. I have to—I need to get to Jared. I have to tell him I love him before⁠—”

LuAnn rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile. “I’m proud of you, babe. You said the words.”

“I have to tell him,” I repeat. “I have to go.”

We’re here for two more days. I can’t stand being away from him that long. I—I can’t. I won’t survive it.

She laughs. “Okay, dumb-dumb. I’ll let you go home one day early. Leave the rest of us to die in the wilderness.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “The wilderness?”

We’re in a river-front house in Quebec City, two streets off the main road. There’s a Tim Horton’s in walking distance. It’s hardly the backroads of the Canadian frontier.

She grins. “But first, sit down and finish your damn book,” Lu says sternly. “You’re almost there. Only a little bit more to go.”