Page 21 of Lovefool

Lake is picking daintily at her slice of Margherita pizza, staring at me with what I hope isn’t an expression of irrepressible disgust.

I immediately set my meat-loaded missile down and wipe the grease off my chin with a napkin. “I’m sorry. I swear my dad taught me manners.”

Limned in the soft glow from an overhead light, her eyebrows pull together, and every curve and dip of her delicate features are backlit by a gilded hue reminiscent of spring’s golden hour. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad my money isn’t going to waste,” she says, the tail end of her sentence tipping up into amusement.

My mouth acts before my brain can assess the situation. The two have never been particularly in sync. “Right, sorry.”

That warm, welcoming vignette behind her suddenly darkens just as a frown emerges on her pouty lips, similar to the way the sun buries itself behind a tessellation of low-altitude storm clouds when petrichor pierces the air. Her sympathy is tangible, and it’s harder to digest than the multitude of pizza slices fighting in the octagon of my gut.

“You say sorry a lot,” she observes, taking a break from her food and slouching against the back of the booth.

“Sor—bad habit,” I confess, bearing the embarrassment that shrinks my appetite and triggers an unnecessary overproduction of heat in my body. The hard-earned meal in front of me couldn’t look less appealing as my heart oscillates between stopping altogether and catapulting into the hundreds.

Lake leans forward the tiniest bit, offering me her upturned palm that I take without a second thought.

“I wish you didn’t feel the need to apologize for being you,” she says.

I hate to admit it, but I care a lot about what people think. Ironic, seeing as I don’t particularly concern myself with those not in my immediate circle. However, being in the hockey limelight has opened me up to a lot of unwarranted criticisms, along with confidence-crushing comparisons that rarely spare me a moment of peace.

I’m self-conscious about my body. I’m not lean or cut like a lot of my teammates, no matter how often I work out. I’m genetically bulky, I go through two grocery runs in a single week, and I’ve conflated my worth with the “prime” male physique in media. I have stretch marks all over my body from rapid growth spurts; my stomach sticks out.

I feel like I’m not good enough. That little voice in the back of my head is indomitable, whispering terrible things in my ear that I believe more and more every day. Self-deprecation is just waiting to jam its sticky fingers into the gaping wound of my misery, incentivizing infection, mutilating pride into a first-degree bruise.

But I’d sooner stick my dick in a fleshlight full of Icy Hot than tell Lake how pathetically insecure I am.

“I’m totally acing this whole date thing, aren’t I?” I laugh, but it’s humorless.

It feels like I’m standing at the very edge of a lichenous parapet—sequestered somewhere along the lush countryside—where I’m met with the precipitous drop of a cobblestone-paved demise. There’s no living soul for miles. Just me, my panoply of nihilistic thoughts, and I.

She rubs her thumb over the back of my knuckles. A simple gesture, but one that secretly means the world to me. She isn’t offput by my awkwardness or unfortunate timing. That wholly humanistic urge to be wanted comes to a boiling point underneath my skin.

“I don’t know, I’m the one who showed up in a parka and jeans. Doesn’t really scream fancy date on my end.”

“You don’t need to wear anything to impress me,” I tell her…right after I realize how badly I worded my response.

“I meant you don’t need to wear anything fancy to impress me. Yep, that’s what I meant. I don’t want you to be naked on our date. That would be impractical. And illegal. Not saying that you don’t look good naked, though! I’m sure you do, but I’m not picturing you naked right now. I’m picturing you with a reasonable amount of clothing on. You just—I—I’m going to stop talking now.”

A melodious chuckle washes over me, tugging at the heartstrings that only sing for her.

“I still make you nervous, don’t I?” she asks, though I’m pretty sure it’s rhetorical.

“It’s that obvious?”

“Maybe just a little, but it’s cute. You’re cute.”

Lake reaches over the table with her free hand and swipes a dollop of whipped cream off the top of my melted milkshake, then sticks her forefinger in her mouth. Unintentionally seductive.

“You think I’m cute?” I exclaim, suffering from a prepubescent-sounding voice crack.

“You’re a catch, Whittaker. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

God, how is she so sure of herself? She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever met before, unburdened by disquietude or proficient in masquerading it.

I snort and shake my head. “You’re going to give me a God complex.”

“Good. It’s only fitting since you’re the spitting image of Adonis himself,” she says before turning her attention to the cavity-forming monstrosity in front of her. “Ugh, I wish this came in strawberry. Did you know that there’s such a thing as a Starburst milkshake? I need to find a place that makes them ASAP. The pink ones are my favorite.”

“I take it you have a big sweet tooth?”