“So, what made you pick art history?” He’s making small talk during our walk to the courts, and I’m grateful he’s carrying the conversation, because I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Well, I’m one of those big undecideds. Duh duh duh,” I sing dramatically. “Anyway, I took a variety of electives this semester to try to figure out exactly what I want to do. I really like art, but not necessarily the creation of it. I’m more into the appreciation—and I think I can tell a story from a work of art. You know, sort of help interpret what the artist meant for the masses? God, that sounds arrogant, huh?” I have been leaning toward a degree in art history though, and I even went so far as to look into internships with the Oklahoma City Museum of Art.

“Actually, I think that sounds amazing. Your answer the other day? That was awesome. I’m a second-year art history major, and I’ve been helping out in Gooding’s class, trying to earn brownie points. I think you’d fit right in,” he says. I watch as he rolls up the cord on his iPod, tucking it in his shorts, and then I realize I’m staring at his very toned arms for way too long. Our eyes make contact for a brief second, and I recognize that flash of flirtation in his gaze again. Oh god. No, this is NOT flirting!

“So what are you hoping to do when you’re done? Run a gallery or something?” I ask, doing my best to steer the conversation back to those moments before his forearms and my gawking.

“Me? Galleries? No, that’s not really my thing. It’s going to sound awful, but…I like the money behind art,” he says, wincing a little at his confession.

“Yeah, that does sound bad. Like, a thief? Or, what…you want to run auctions or a pawn shop?”

“No,” he chuckles. “More like appraisals and high-end art dealing. I like that fact that art is a commodity. And I think it would be a fun business to be a part of—that’s all.”

I take in everything he says, and when he puts it that way, it does make sense. The only reason art is something I could major in is because of the value it brings to the economy. It’s all well and good to think that we appreciate the arts for their intrinsic value, and I truly do. But I wouldn’t be able to if someone somewhere didn’t pay for it.

“Okay, I’m down with your career plan. As long as it funds mine,” I smile big and hold out my fist. Tucker just laughs and then gives me knuckles.

“Deal,” he says, holding the gate open for the tennis courts. “All right, so take it easy on me, okay? I’m more of the lift-heavy-things kind of athlete. I might not be too much competition right away, but I’m a quick study.”

“Sure. I’ll take it easy,” I say, winking at him as I pull my racket from its zipper bag. And damn…I’m flirting again.

Tucker wasn’t as bad as he said he was. I did win every set, but he took a few games to deuce, and they weren’t easy wins. An hour of playing had me exhausted, but my head was finally starting to clear up, and now all I could think about was getting back home so I could get ready to go to Nate’s game tonight. I needed to see him, and I needed to talk to him after his game—tell him how much he meant to me, whether or not he said it back.

“Right, so you kicked my ass,” Tucker says, pulling his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his brow. Instead of looking, I focus on my racket and my barely untied shoelace—anything but his bare stomach and abs.

“Nah, you held your own. You have nothing to be ashamed of with that performance out there,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn at how my words came out. I sound like I’m gushing.

“So, what’s on tap for the rest of Rowe’s day?” he asks.

“Oh, not much. Just heading over to the baseball game tonight with a few of my friends,” I say, instantly regretting it.

“Yeah? They play this early? I didn’t think the season started until spring.” All I want is for some great fix to land in my lap, but there isn’t one. And I’ve already established that I’m crap at lying.

“It’s a tournament. They have a few in the fall, just to keep the athletes prepped,” I say, trying to stand and signal that I’m ready to leave through my body language. I’m stuck somewhere between wanting to be polite and rude; I think this whole thing would be easier if Tucker weren’t so damned good looking, and if Nate were really my boyfriend—like the kind that says he loves me, and introduces me to his ex-girlfriend as his current girlfriend.

“Cool. Well, maybe I’ll see ya there later then,” he says, unrolling the cord on his iPod while he backs away. All I can do is nod, smile, and wave goodbye.