He licks his lips and looks down at mine. Why, oh, why do I mimic him? He takes it as a sign to lean in, and he comes super close to kissing me. But he gives me time to back out, his eyes back on my hazel orbs as he reads me like a book. Just before he touches me, I sharply inhale air, shocked that I’ve let him get so close.
He draws back an inch. “Shit. I’m sorry. Fuck, I swear I’m not that guy.”
I smile, uncomfortable in my own skin, and stand from the log to put some space between us. “It’s okay. No worries.”
He stands as well and rubs his hands through his silky brown hair. “It’s late. I should go.”
We’re both twenty and adults as far as the world is concerned, so we don’t have to do the awkward thing. “You don’t have to go. Please, stay on the couch again. If I let you leave as tired as you are, my dad will haunt me. I’d love to see the old man, but not when he’s angry about his alma mater.”
I’m on the receiving end of his brilliant, white smile, and I’m once again a bit stunned at how weak in the knees it renders me. “Thank you, for being cool.”
“There’s no need to be awkward.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Does it mean we can be friends?”
“Yeah, QB.” I can’t stop the flirty smile from spreading across my face. “We’re friends.” And I don’t know why it makes me gleefully happy.
— 4 —
Then
I’M DREAMING ABOUT BEING Khal Drogo’s willing concubine when my buzzing phone pulls me from sleep. I reach for my phone and pluck it from my nightstand. “Hello?”
No one says anything, so I look at the screen and see it’s buzzing with text messages from an unknown number. I wipe the drool off my cheek, and open the message.
Unknown: Zina said you’re a Pearl Jam fan. I heardJeremyon the radio and thought of you. She said you might be pissed she gave me your number, but friends should have each other’s phone numbers. Right?
Unknown: FYI: This is your friend, Chicken Shit.
Unknown: Please don’t put me in your phone as ‘Chicken Shit’.
I laugh at him and save his number.
QB: It might bruise my already fragile ego.
Zhanna: I think your ego is just fine.
QB: Did I wake you?
Zhanna: Yes. What are you doing up at 3 am?
QB: Writing a paper. I’m sorry I woke you.
Zhanna: It’s okay. Are you alright?
QB: Tired. Go back to sleep, woman. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Zhanna: Night, QB.
QB: Night, Coach.
I sleep in the next morning since my class doesn’t start until noon on Thursday. Zina texts me from Ben and Bryant’s house while I’m in a public relations class and asks me to meet her at football practice. She makes it sound urgent, so I meet her at the practice field after my two-hour class. She’s standing right next to the head coach like she owns the place. Coach Paul Tombs was my fathers favorite rival when they played together in the pros, but Dad always respected the man and his talent. Dad always gave people their due. Zina was the son my father always wanted. Zina loves football more than I do, and she aims to follow the coaching path like our dad. She’d be one of the first female coaches if she ever makes it, and she’s tenacious enough to do so.
I take my eyes off my sister and search out Ben and Bryant on the field. Bryant and I lock eyes seconds before he’s tackled to the ground.
“What the hell was that, Hudson?” Coach Tombs yells.
I have a feeling my presence at practice is a surprise to Bryant, and his sack might be my fault. I hope he isn’t hurt.
