I tilt my head back so cold liquid encircles my skull, wincing at the accompanying jolt to my nervous system. “I spend twenty minutes before every single game imagining exactly how I want it to go, followed by all the things that could go wrong.” I wait, but there’s no response, so I keep talking. “Whenever I need to think—really think—I like to lie on top of the center line and stare up at the sky. People think I love being the center of attention, but I only enjoy it when I’m on the field. I hate olives. I drink nothing but gin, coffee, and water.” Still nothing. “My mom left when I was five. I eat mint chocolate chip ice cream on the anniversary of the day each year.”

“How come?” Beck asks. His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it, completely bereft of its usual cocky undertone.

“We went to get ice cream the day before she left. She ordered mint chocolate chip. I was nervous about my first soccer game the following day.” I scoff. “She was probably planning how to pack her suitcase.”

Beck opens his mouth and I’m expecting some sympathetic words; some iteration of the uncomfortable apologies I was subjected to for weeks after she left. Instead, “I’m allergic to tomatoes,” comes out.

Oddly, it’s the perfect answer. “I don’t think we should consider golf a sport.”

I turn my head to catch a ghost of a grin. “I collect paintings.”

“I read mystery books,” I admit.

“My favorite color is blue.”

“I’ve never been on a date.”

Beck breaks our volley. “What do you think this is?”

I raise my head so I can look at him, feeling cold rivulets of water trickle down the sides of my face as my hair emerges from the lake. “Uh, not a date. A hike. Hanging out. Foreplay.”

The last suggestion earns me another hearty, husky laugh. “All these trees turning you on?”

“Nope. But you are.” Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and the look Beck gives me in response to that comment makes me glad I’m already submerged in chilly water. I’m pretty sure the heat in his gaze would incinerate clothing. If I were wearing any, that is.

The water parts effortlessly as he advances, ripples radiating outward toward the shore. Toward me.

“Do you want me to do it some more?” Beck whispers in a low voice, like we’re in a crowded movie theater rather than in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere.

And rather than play it cool and composed, I nod so ferociously I look like a bobblehead doll. Beck draws close enough that I can see the skin of his throat vibrate with a chuckle as he registers my response.

“You sure?” he teases.