Getting to Third Date by Kelly McClymer Page B

moment.
    â€œUmm.” Great going, Katelyn. Why don’t you get on the megaphone and just tell everyone you’re Mother Hubbard. “Just this once. They needed someone to write up a story on the homecoming game.”
    â€œDo you like football?”
    I could have said yes, but then he might have wondered why I’d closed my eyes during the last big rushing tackly move the opposing team did to get one over on our team. At least, as far as I could tell from the boos on our side of the stadium. “No. But there wasn’t anyone else, and I didn’t want to pass up free tickets.”
    â€œReally? I’d think there’d be lots of people who’d want to come to the homecoming football game.”
    I thought of the four people who’d been mad that Tyler had given me the tickets. “You’d think. But the regular sports person got sick suddenly, and I have a class with the editor, and…there you are.” I leaned forward a little, using the cleavage Sophia had helped me showcase as a distraction. It was bad of me, but I was desperate to distract him from this topic before I got into real trouble.
    â€œGood news for us, bad for him.” Blaine took a soda out of the cooler and popped the top. “Want one?”
    I took one, just for something to do. He sat down close to me, draped his arm around me, and squeezed me tight as he leaned in to pop my top.
    He didn’t move his arm, even after I took a nervous sip of my drink. My hand was shaking so hard I thought for sure I’d dump the contents of the can right into my cleavage zone. But I took tiny sips and avoided that humiliation.
    Blaine was having no trouble adjusting to the relative luxury of watching football from a private box. He cheered when the running and jumping and kicking were good for us. And booed when they weren’t. But he didn’t let go of me while he did it.
    When I felt his hand creep a little too far up under my shirt, I just moved it back down with a nod to the geriatric squad on our left. I’d been worried he might sulk at not getting his way, like he had before when we’d gone out. But he smiled and didn’t protest, except to brush his lips against my ear and ask if I wanted more to drink.
    I’m not sure I’d have said yes if I’d known Blaine was going to take a flask from his pocket and make the bland soda more interesting. But I may have anyway. There was a reason I’d given Blaine a top buzz factor. He tended to make everything sound like a great idea. He was the kind of guy who was used to hearing yes. When you were around him, you wanted to say yes.
    By halftime I was ready to leave, but that wasn’t an option. Blaine was still into the game, not to mention he’d think it was odd I was only going to report on half the game. Especially considering the score was close: 14–7. Not in our favor.
    The cheerleaders and marching band were taking the field—and doing a good job.
    So I pretended to be having a great time watching people run—or march—around the field so he’d think I actually cared and wanted to see the end of the game.
    All was good, until suddenly the geriatric brigade got noisy. I looked over to see what was up and caught the president’s eye. He leaned over and whispered something. All I heard was “paper” but I could imagine the rest. The president has to put up with student newspaper reporters and their nosy questions because of the whole free speech thing. But he was still annoyed about the article that had been done on how, when he renovated the university’s president’s house, the furniture had been thrown out, or given to the workers. All the student groups were outraged that they didn’t get to inherit some of the stuff. It didn’t really mean anything, except that it made him look bad. Presidents don’t like looking bad. It makes the board of trustees and the parents ask