13. Wyatt

Chapter 13

Wyatt

Fern seems just as uncomfortable being seen or recognized as I am, so I suggest a diner a few blocks from the main drag. I tip my chin at the host, who is bussing tables, and Fern and I settle into one of the tall booths near the back.

Just as I watch Fern shrug out of her coat, a flustered server drops off a pair of laminated menus, still damp from a wipe-down, and plunks red plastic water cups in front of us. "Be back in a few," they say, hurrying off to another table. Fine with me.

I don't need to study the menu. I always get a grilled chicken breast with broccoli and a side of wild rice if I'm in the off-season, which I am right now. I pretend to study the menu, but really, I'm staring at Fern. She's so damn pretty, in addition to being insanely capable. Her dark hair and eyes stand out against her fair skin—Fern's complexion is almost like porcelain, but I know there's nothing fragile about her.

And god, she's curvy and soft. But never delicate. She has a wide smile she doesn't use very often. I sigh. She's been pretty clear about the stakes if she gets in trouble with her teaching gig. I shouldn't be trying to get her to smile at me.

The server comes back while Fern is frowning at the menu. I kick her gently under the table. "Remember, this is my treat to thank you for the help with the absolute value stuff."

She rolls her eyes, and the server looks back and forth between us. "You guys ready to order?" They tap a pen on an old-school restaurant notebook. That's why I like this place. No digital anything. I don't even think they take credit cards. It's dimly lit, always full, and the food is pretty good.

I glance at the server and give them my order, trying to adjust my pants in response to Fern licking her lip as she settles on what to eat. "I think I want the Reuben," she says like she's not sure. Man, how long has it been since I ate one of those? I make a mental note to treat myself in celebration once I secure a contract.

The server takes our menus, and they rush off to hand the slip to the kitchen staff. Fern folds her hands on the table and looks at me with those huge eyes of hers. "So, you're eating healthy stuff, but you're not in season, but you're skipping workouts and trying to get a professional contract? Is that about it?"

I laugh. "I know it all sounds insane. It's just what I'm used to. It's actually been pretty easy to eat clean in my family since all four of us are in elite athletics. And my Aunt Alice is a chef, so she spoils us all."

"Oh man, a chef in the family would be my undoing." Fern reaches for her water, and I can't help but stare at those full lips wrapped around the paper straw. She frowns and pulls it from her glass. "I can't handle how these feel in my mouth once they get wet." She picks up the cup and takes a sip, and it's much less evocative, which I guess is good for my still-tight pants.

"What about you," I ask her. "You said something about a fellowship?"

Fern nods. "I applied for a bunch of them. It's not like I can go to grad school without full funding. But I really want to study in London."

I lean forward, fascinated. "Why London?"

She beams and absolutely glows in the low light of this deli. "Imperial College in London is one of the best places in the world to study algebraic geometry."

I snort. "I don't even know what that is!"

Fern waves a hand. "Advanced math stuff. But the connections would be incredible. Cutting-edge research in cryptography and cybersecurity. Financial engineering. Gah!" She shimmies her shoulders, looking adorably excited. "A whole world of opportunities."

I nod. "And you didn't have a ton of opportunities before."

"Yeah." She shrugs. "You know how it can be. It sounds like you started out with a single mom…" I nod. Fern continues, saying, "Mom always wanted to study finance. She's incredible with numbers. She and my dad met in high school, got pregnant, got married, and tried to make it work with community college. Still, they didn't have a ton of support, and…" Fern drifts off and looks up at a restaurant employee who slides our plates on the table and practically takes off at a run to gather more from the counter at the kitchen window.

I slide her plate closer to her and grab my own, adding, "And your dad couldn't handle when shit got hard, so your mom made do."

Fern nods. I lift my water glass and hold it out toward her. "To strong women." I wink as she clinks her cup against mine. We have a lot in common, even though it doesn't seem like it from the outside. Sure, I had a lot going my way for the majority of my life. But the baggage of the early years is still weighing me down in a big way that I can see Fern understands. She doesn't seem grouchy and moody about her struggles, though. She just digs in and works around the clock toward her goal.

Fern picks up her sandwich, the gooey sauerkraut and sauce dripping out on the side of her hand, and takes a bite. And she releases a sound I heard a few weeks ago when I had my head between her thighs. "Shit, Fern, it's no wonder I like spending time with you."

Fern chews, blushing, and frantically reaches for napkins. "This is a mess," she whispers, and I think she means more than the sandwich. I'm about to say something else I shouldn't, something flirty and inappropriate, but a pair of students walks down the aisle toward the bathroom, and they recognize me.

"Hey! You're Wyatt from the Viper soccer team, right?" I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and nod. "Man, you had a phenomenal season! Hey, can I get an autograph?" The one guy reaches forward and snatches Fern's spare napkin, sliding it my way.

She stares at him and his companion, wide-eyed, unused to having her meals interrupted by fans. They look over at her and quickly glance back at me. I don't like that they don't say hello to her. Sure, she's not famous, but she's clearly someone important to me if I'm sitting here with her at a restaurant. Instead, the shorter of the two guys looks at Fern and asks, "You got a pen we can borrow?"

Fern's mouth works up and down, and I can tell she's about to reach for her bag to dig for a pen, but I hold up a hand. "Hey, guys, we can do a quick selfie, but please don't inconvenience my friend or take her things." I slide the napkin back toward Fern as the taller guy nods and hands me his phone.

I extend an arm to get the three of us in the photo. No way am I asking Fern to take it. I smile, tight-lipped, and hand the guy his phone back, barely acknowledging them as they walk off.

"Wow," Fern says, chewing on another bite of sandwich. I scowl. "You really don't like getting approached by fans, do you?"

"Was it obvious?"

She laughs.

I shake my head and spear a bite of chicken. I chew, swallow, and reach for my water. As I do, my hand brushes Fern's as she reaches for her water at the same time. I stare down at the place where our skin touches, feeling searing jolts of electricity run through me. It's like a pinched nerve but in a really good way.

In a moment of impulse, I lose all sense of … well, sense, and I lean forward, reaching for Fern, like I'm going to pull her face close to me and kiss her right here in the restaurant. For the briefest moment, I think she's going to reciprocate, but she pulls back and starts shaking her head. She stiffens.

"Wyatt," she whispers. "We can't do that. You can't do that. I'm your TA, and we need to have boundaries."

I nod. "I'm sorry," I tell her, and I'm about to say a whole lot more when my phone rings. It's the loud, brassy ring I assigned to Brian, my agent. I sigh. "I'm sorry," I repeat, gesturing at the phone in my hand.

She nods and takes another bite of the her sandwich. I stare at her eating as I accept the call. Brian doesn't even wait to be greeted; he just launches into news of a potential contract offer from a team in Mexico. I know Fern can hear him. I know everyone in the deli can hear him.

Fern takes one more bite of the sandwich and shrugs her arms back into her coat. I hold a hand over the phone. "You don't have to go," I say quietly.

She shakes her head and places a palm on my shoulder. I feel the warmth again, the sizzle, but I know her intention is not to encourage that type of energy. "You should talk to your agent. Thank you so much for the food, Wyatt. I'll see you in class."

She makes her way out of the crowded restaurant as Brian rattles on and on about the money we're going to earn together, about the suntan I'll get in Guadalajara. I can't manage to rustle up excitement for this opportunity, especially knowing I'm no closer than I was before to sorting out my legal name. I barely pay attention as Brian talks through his plan to woo the team. Despite the heavy odor of fried food and grilled meat, I still imagine I can smell Fern and her snow-dusted hair.

My mind reels from the disappointment of not kissing her, from the opportunity I might have to let slip away, from all of it. Eventually, I toss a bunch of money on the table and walk out, making my way home where at least my cousins can distract me with their carefree nonsense.