“I liked you better when you were the quiet, sullen one,” Jamal says to Lawrence, tapping his fingers on the armrest primly.
Price chimes in from my left. “Why? Because he’s stealing your thunder?”
Jamal narrows his eyes with a mocking smile. “Keep it up and I’ll come over there and smudge your toenail polish.”
“Definitely not a threat I ever expected to hear in my lifetime.”
I look down at my own feet, propped up on a folded towel so my black and silver toenails can dry. Yeah, we came to a nail salon today because after Bree painted our nails for the first playoff game and we won, we got pretty superstitious about it. As long as we continue winning, we’ll continue painting. I would have asked her to paint them again today, but I also needed to brainstorm with the guys. So here we are, just five big dudes destroying stereotypes, getting our toenails painted in our team’s colors, and enjoying the hell out of ourselves. Did you know they serve champagne at these places? I’m honestly hooked. I need to bring Bree back here.
Jamal somehow wrestles the list back from Lawrence. He wants to reclaim his thunder. “Okay, so judging by this list, it’s time to step up the physical touch a notch. You’ve held hands. Touched her arm while talking.” He’s ticking these off on his fingers. “Brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Rubbed her feet…yeah, I’d say it’s time to make out a little if she seems up for it.”
Item number 20. Yes, I have them memorized. And yes, I’ve been looking forward to this one more than the rest. Mainly I’ve just been hoping I’d make it to this one without Bree shutting down on me and having to abort the whole plan. So far, all signs have pointed toward: Yeah, she’s feeling it too. I’ve never been full of so much hope. Or dread for if this all goes well and I have to tell her I’ve been working from a cheat sheet this whole time. But we can cross that bridge when we get to it.
“How though? I can’t exactly make out with her on my couch at home and use the fake relationship excuse. And we don’t have any events coming up.”
“I’ll throw a party,” Derek says from his end. “After the game tomorrow. If we win, we’ll call it a victory party. If we lose, it’s a consolation. Parties are the perfect excuse to make out. Everyone’s always slipping off to a dark corner.”
I grimace, feeling sort of gross to be premeditating a make-out with Bree. “Actually, I don’t want to plan that one. If it happens naturally, it happens. I’m not going to force it.”
Derek rolls his eyes. He thinks I’m such a prude. “Fine. But it’s still a good place to act as a springboard for a few of these other ideas.”
“You just want an excuse to party,” says Jamal with a tattletale grin.
Derek is the resident playboy/troublemaker/media magnet. He’s always getting into trouble, which is why during the regular season, I keep the guys on a short leash. There’s nothing I can actually do to stop them if they want to party, but for some reason, they look up to me. They want my approval. Which is why he has been chomping at the bit to get into a little trouble.
Derek clasps his hands below his chin like a pleading toddler. “Pllleeeasseee let me throw a party, Dad.”
“I actually think Derek is right,” Jamal says, thumping the back of his knuckle against the sheet of paper. “A party is a great place to unexpectedly short-circuit a fuse and have to light a bunch of candles.”
I look at each of the hopeful puppy dog faces lined up around me. “Fine. A small one. But you guys better not end up on the news the next morning.”
Derek is already ripping his phone from his pocket and his thumbs fly across his screen. Jamal chuckles under his breath beside me and starts reading down the list again.
“Wait—did you really get stuck in an elevator?”