Page 20 of Rookie Moves

The need to vomit burns in my chest from the nerves bubbling in my stomach like a witch’s cauldron.

What if it’s awkward? What if he realizes that he doesn’t want to help me because I’m inexperienced at, like, everything?

I wasn’t kidding when I told him I’m a rookie. In every sense of the word.

It’s embarrassing. I’m nineteen, and I haven’t even kissed someone. The first time I held hands with someone outside of my family was with Stassie a few months ago when she found out her family cat had died and I tried to comfort her.

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and I tense. The clock on my bedside table reads seven o’clock, and my stomach drops.

Fuck. He’s here.

This is really happening.

With shaky arms, I push myself off my bed and head to the door. I take in a deep breath, then plaster on what I hope is a confident smile when I swing open the door. Tyler stands on the other side. He’s holding a Chipotle bag, lips kicked up in a crooked grin as he takes me in.

“Did I wake you?” he asks teasingly.

Confused, I furrow my brows. “No?”

He juts his chin toward me. “You look like you’ve just woken up.”

I take a step back and turn toward the mirror on my closet. My hair is a mess from where I’ve been running my fingers through it, and there’s a pillow crease down one side of my face from where I buried my head in it.

“No, just…” I wave my hand in the air, hoping the words will appear out of thin air. “Overwhelmed,” I settle on, though it’s a major understatement.

Tyler gives a sympathetic smile and moves into my room. He closes the door behind him, and I hear the gentle flick of the lock engaging. The notion of it has my heart rate kicking up a gear and nerves coiling in my gut.

Is something going to happen tonight? I know that’s the whole plan, but I don’t know if I’m ready for it. Are you ever ready for it? Is there like a sign or timer that prepares you for this? Maybe I should have searched on the internet for a manual on the best way to lose your virginity.

He digs out a bowl from the bag and hands it over. My stomach grumbles at the smell as I open the lid before it swoops at the significance of what’s in my hands.

“How did you know my order?” I ask, genuinely touched.

“Because it’s the exact same as mine, except you have tomato salsa instead of chili-corn salsa.” He shrugs, like it means nothing. “It was easy to remember.”

Something pulls in my chest. A sense of acknowledgment I’ve never experienced before. Ducking my head, I try to hide my smile, not wanting him to see how much a fucking Chipotle bowl means to me.

“Sit wherever you like,” I say, taking a seat on the edge of my bed.

He glances around my room, taking in the mess that is the avalanche coming out of my closet and the pile of textbooks I’ve thrown on the floor. He drags the chair from under my desk and takes a cautious seat on it.

“It’s not going to break,” I snicker.

He gives me a toothy grin. “I was just checking. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ended up on my ass from sitting on a desk chair.”

Laughing, we settle into an easy conversation about the NHL season while we eat.

It’s easy. Comfortable. And I almost forget about the reason why he’s here in the first place.

“So, I guess we should talk… strategy,” I say once I finish my food.

Smirking, he arches a brow. “Strategy.”

“Yeah.” I place my empty bowl onto the bedside table and wipe my damp palms down the front of my thighs. “You know, if there’s going to be back-checking in the end zone, we need to make sure we know position and responsibility.”

His face lights up with amusement. He rolls his lips inward, but he’s unable to stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. “Colbs, are you using hockey talk to discuss sex?”

Groaning, I cover my face with my hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”