The doorbell rang at 8:00 sharp. Becky answered, ushering in Dwayne—tall, toned, in jeans and a button-up that hugged his runner's build. His eyes widened at James. "Wow, Jamie. You look... incredible."
"Th-thanks," James stammered, voice a breathy soprano. Don't blush. Don't giggle. But he did both.
Dwayne offered his arm. "Ready? I thought mini-golf, then ice cream. Low-key."
As they walked to his car, James's heels clicked unsteadily. Mini-golf? With putting and... bending over? Internal panic: What if he holds my hand? What if I feel... something? Lisa, think of Lisa. Monday, tell her everything.
The date started awkwardly—James nearly face-planting on the first hole, his dress riding up as he bent for the ball. Dwayne laughed, steadying him with a hand on the waist. Warm. Strong. Nope, not thinking about it. But conversation flowed: school (James bullshitting about his "old town"), track vs. cheer, Brett being a jerk. Dwayne was sweet, funny, protective without being overbearing.
By hole 9, James was relaxed, even laughing at Dwayne's jokes. He's nice. Really nice.
James felt a strange flutter in her stomach—butterflies?—as Dwayne's hand brushed hers while handing over the putter. Get it together, man, she thought, but the internal voice sounded less convincing in Jamie's high-pitched lilt. You're doing this for Becky. Survive the date, ace the competition, snag the medallion from Trish, and boom—back to James. Lisa. Work. Normal life. But as Dwayne grinned, his teeth flashing white under the mini-golf course lights, those abs peeked through his shirt again when he stretched for a tricky shot. Damn it.
"Nice form," Dwayne said after Jamie sank a surprisingly decent putt—her petite body's natural grace and old gymnastics muscle memory kicking in. "You're full of surprises, Jamie. Transfer student, cheer flier, and now mini-golf pro?"
Jamie giggled—actually giggled—before clamping a hand over her glossed lips. "Beginner's luck. Back home, I... uh... played a lot of sports." Lame cover, but he bought it. The course was crowded with teens, laughter echoing, neon lights flickering. A group of guys from the football team spotted them, catcalling from afar. "Hey, Dwayne! Scoring with the new cheer chick already?"
Dwayne flipped them off good-naturedly but pulled Jamie closer, his arm draping protectively around her narrow shoulders. The contact sent a spark through her—warm, electric. This body is traitorous. Her nipples hardened against the push-up bra, and a unfamiliar warmth pooled lower. No. Nope. Thinking of Lisa. Her curves, her laugh... wait, why does that feel distant now?
Thinking briefly about Lisa's curves, James instinctively emphasized her own, arching her back just a little as Dwayne guided her to the next hole. The motion made the red dress ride higher on her thighs, and she felt the cool night air kiss the newly exposed skin. Stop that, she scolded herself, but the body seemed to have a mind of—well, not its own, but definitely a different set of reflexes.
Dwayne noticed. Of course he did. “You cold?” he asked, voice low, already shruging out of his lightweight jacket before she could answer. In one smooth move he draped it over her shoulders. It smelled like clean laundry, a hint of cologne, and him—and it swallowed her whole, sleeves dangling past her fingertips.
“I—thanks,” Jamie mumbled, face flaming. The jacket was warm, heavy, and smelled like safety. She pulled the sleeves over her hands like mittens, suddenly shy. This is ridiculous. I’m thirty-four, not fourteen.
Hole 12 was a windmill obstacle. Dwayne went first, lining up his shot with that easy athletic grace. When the ball clinked through, he turned, grinning. “Your turn, princess.”
Princess. The nickname should’ve annoyed her. Instead, it sent another flutter through her stomach. She stepped up, heels wobbling on the astro-turf, and took her stance. Bend at the waist, hips back—don’t flash anyone, don’t flash anyone—and swung. The ball ricocheted off the windmill blade and rolled… straight into the hole.
“Yes!” She jumped, arms up, and her breasts bounced enthusiastically. Dwayne whooped, high-fiving her so hard she stumbled. He caught her by the waist, steadying her, and for one suspended second they were chest to chest, his hands firm on her hips.
“You’re killing it,” he said, voice softer now. His thumb brushed the strip of bare skin where the dress met the jacket. Jamie’s breath hitched.
Dwayne. Dwayne. The internal mantra, previously latched onto Lisa, was starting to sound like a broken record.
Dwayne. Dwayne. Dwayne.
Jamie swallowed hard. “Ice cream?” she squeaked, stepping back before her knees gave out entirely.
The parlor was a retro 50s joint—chrome stools, checkered floor, jukebox crooning oldies. Dwayne ordered for both of them without asking: strawberry for her (“It matches your dress”), chocolate–peanut-butter for him. Jamie wanted to protest—she hated being decided for—but the cone was already in her tiny hand, cold and sweet, and the protest died behind a grateful lick.
They claimed a corner booth. Dwayne slid in opposite her, long legs stretching under the table until his knee bumped hers. He didn’t move it away. Neither did she.
“So,” he started, swirling his spoon, “transfer senior year—rough. What’s the story?”
Jamie’s brain scrambled for the cover Trish had cooked up. “Parents… job thing. Dad’s in tech, got relocated. I didn’t want to leave my old squad, but…” She shrugged, the motion making Dwayne’s jacket slip off one shoulder. She tugged it back up, hyper-aware of how the sleeves swallowed her hands.
“Must be weird starting over,” he said, eyes flicking to the jacket—his jacket—then back to her face. “But you seem… I dunno. Comfortable in your skin.”
If only you knew. Jamie nearly snorted strawberry ice cream out her nose. “I fake it ’til I make it,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
Dwayne leaned in. “Well, you’re doing a hell of a job.” His voice dropped. “And for the record? Brett’s an asshole. If he comes near you again, tell me.”
The protective tone sent an embarrassing thrill straight between her legs. Down, girl. “I can handle myself,” she said, but it came out breathy, not tough.
He grinned like he didn’t believe her. “Sure you can, princess.”
Outside, under the neon parlor sign, Dwayne walked her to his car. The night air was cool; goosebumps prickled up Jamie’s bare thighs. He opened the passenger door, but instead of letting her in, he crowded her gently against it—hands on either side of her head, caging without trapping.
“Jamie,” he said, low. “I had fun tonight.”
“Me too,” she whispered, heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it.
He dipped his head. Slowly. Giving her every chance to pull away.
This is it. First kiss as a girl. With a guy. Do I—
She didn’t pull away.
His lips brushed hers—soft, warm, tasting like chocolate and peanut butter. Jamie’s eyes fluttered shut. A tiny sound escaped her throat, half-surprise, half-oh. Dwayne angled his head, deepening it just enough for her to feel the scrape of stubble, the firmness of his mouth. Her hands—still in his jacket sleeves—came up to fist in his shirt, right over those ridiculous abs.
Lisa. Lisa. Lis—
The name fizzled out like a dying sparkler.
Dwayne pulled back first, breathing hard. “Damn,” he muttered. “You’re dangerous.”
Jamie’s knees were jelly. “I—uh—yeah?”
