"I know Tyler, but . . . well, why me? I'm not exactly pretty like Gina Hernandez is. She's already got boobs."
“No one cares about Gina,” Tyler replies with a look on his face and I have to agree. Gina’s not the nicest girl, but I don't mind her that much, she just doesn't know when to drop a joke. “I’m asking you because you're kinda cool to talk to, you know, for a girl."
"You just like the fact I can start a fire without matches," I reply, thinking back to both the good and bad of that. It was fun, but once it became public knowledge that I'm part First Nations, the jokes started. I really don't like the jokes. In Canada, so many people are at least part First Nations that we don't even think about it, but here in California, it's enough of a difference that somebody felt it was worth a joke, and everyone else ran with it. Tyler's the only person though that makes the jokes not feel bad, though, which is why I don't mind them from him.
"Actually, I liked the fact that you're like, the only girl who isn't afraid to go out and body board in the surf. I know the water here is colder than San Diego, but I love it too much. You get out there right with me."
"It's why I'm wearing my swimsuit underneath," I reply, showing him the strap of my suit. "You know, us girls can't just jump in the ocean in our shorts and a t-shirt like the guys."
"I don't wear my t-shirt," Tyler counters, showing off his arms. He's nearly as tan as I am, a deep sun-kissed chestnut brown, and he's already got muscles. A strange tingle goes through me whenever he takes off his shirt, like chocolate and batteries.
"I've noticed," I say, accepting it instead of trying to force out all the weird stuff in my head, and point ahead. "We're nearly there."
Tyler takes my hand again and pulls me to a stop. "So . . . will you go with me to the barbecue?"
I'm not sure why my head is moving, but suddenly I'm nodding, and Tyler's smile makes it cool. "Great. Come on, I'll race you to the beach."
Tyler takes off up the path, and I'm laughing, chasing after him as we jump over the tree roots and little rocks. There's no way that I can catch him. I'm out of breath when I finally catch up to him on the sand, and I see he's already stripped off his tank top. Chocolate and batteries, chocolate and batteries . . .
"Hey Pocahontas, come on!" Tyler laughs, and heads for the water. I strip off my own shorts and shirt and run down, careful about the shells. They're really pokey, and I don't want to walk the mile back to camp with a cut on my foot.
I shake my head, the memories of years ago making me smile. I go out to the parking lot and drive over to the car rental place that the Fighters use for new players. We have a corporate account, and it's convenient. I go inside, where Hank, the day manager is looking at something on his computer. "Good morning April!"
I smile but can't work up a reply, and Hank shakes his head. "April, how are you ever going to climb that corporate ladder when you can barely give me a good smile after us knowing each other for what, nearly a year?"
"About that," I half whisper. It's not that Hank is a scary guy, in fact he's really nice. It's just that he's older, and he's in management. I know he told me he doesn't blame me for the time one of the players got into a car accident after I'd turned over the keys, but still . . .
"Then relax. What can I do for you today?"
I take a deep breath and get to business. "The Fighters have a new player coming in, and I need to get a car for him."
"New player, huh? Cool. What's he play?"
"Quarterback. Tyler Paulson, from California."
"Nice, we need one," Hank, who's a big Fighters fan, says. "What's he like?"
I stop, embarrassed. So much of being a personal assistant is knowing what sort of things a player likes, and here I am, having not even picked him up, and I'm already forgetting parts of my job! Shit!
"Ahh . . . I don't know," I finally say, turning red. "I just know he arrives in three days and that he's a quarterback. The team's asked him to skip walking at graduation, and he's coming straight from his final exams."
"Then let's do some research," Hank says amiably. He turns to his computer and clicks around with his mouse. "Let's see . . . Tyler Paulson . . . quarterback . . . oh wow, he's got great stats. Not that it helps us . . . let's see, car . . . well, maybe this helps."
Hank turns the monitor toward me, and I feel that old feeling, what was it I called it back then, chocolate and batteries? Yep, it's chocolate and batteries time again as Hank shows me a picture of Tyler from the Internet. He's got even more of a surfer boy look than when we were kids, with his hair in a total Abercrombie and Fitch lanky half-comb over thing with brownish-blond hair, but he's lost some of the tan that I remember him with. I guess college football will do that to you . . . that and remembering to wear sunscreen.