“Can’t take you anywhere, slob,” Roman grumbles, grabbing some napkins out of the metal dispenser on the table and shoving them at Evan. Evan grins at Roman and looks back at me. He halfheartedly swipes the napkins over the mess.
“Do enlighten me, oh wise ass.” I sit back in the booth, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You’re the most competitive dude at school, probably in this entire town. You can’t stand losing, and sometimes you’re a sore loser. Don’t look at me like that, I still have the scar to prove it.” He waves his left wrist a few times. “You’re holding a grudge against him just because your team lost.” He’s partially right, but there’s no way in hell I’m getting into the rest of it right now. I shrug silently. “But we always got your back. Bros before ho—” He pauses and rethinks his word choice. “Non-bros. If you hate this guy, we hate him.”
Do I hate Becker? He’s annoying, irritating, and obnoxious. He’s way too cheerful at six-thirty in the morning, and this bizarre mixture of organized chaos that leaves you feeling a little like a tornado just swept past you but instead of leaving a giant mess behind, it rearranges everything and suddenly you can’t find your keys, your shoes are gone, phone’s missing, but there’s no evidence whatsoever. I sure as hell don’t like him. Do I want to pound his face into the pavement a little bit? Yes. Do I also want to shove him up against a wall and stick my tongue down his throat? Absolutely yes. He’s hot as fuck. But that’s neither here nor there because these lips will not be going anywhere near his. He’s not trustworthy. I’ve already been burned once by him, and I won’t let it happen again.
Our conversation turns to less dangerous topics while we finish our food. I manage to eat a few slices of pizza, but it sits heavily in my stomach and I pass on dessert. I just want to get home, throw on some Netflix, and zone out.
This evening I lie on my bed doing the whole zen clear your mind shit Rylee tries to show me all the time. But no matter how many deep breaths I take or how manyooommsI say, my mind won’t settle. Thoughts of Becker run rampant, ping-ponging around my brain like the inside of a pinball machine. Visions of Becker from camp also flash through my mind. I can see him, clear as day, in front of me in his athletic shorts and fitted t-shirt, leaning over tying his shoes, and getting ready to go for a run. His calf muscles are firm and the light hair on his legs disappears beneath the fabric of his shorts. I still wonder what it would feel like to run my palms along his thighs and—I slam shut the window inside my mind and clench my teeth.
“Fucking damn it all to hell,” I spit out, removing my hand from my boxers and sitting straight up against the headboard. I take another deep breath, counting backward from twenty as I exhale. Two more repetitions and my racing heart has somewhat calmed down.
I’d left everything to do with Dacen Becker back at soccer camp. I do not, I repeat, do not fantasize about assholes that leave their teammates high and dry, among other things.
Yeah, sure you don’t fantasize about him. Certainly not about his lips around your dick or wondering what it would feel like to sink deep inside his body.
I run one hand down my face and plop my head back against the headboard. If Becker makes the team—and let’s be real, he’s going to—my life could go from normal to shitstorm-level weird very quickly. And that just won’t do. I’ll have to take every precaution to prevent that from happening.
3
Ryne
Afew days later tryouts are over and I’m impatiently waiting for the email from Coach with the list of this year’s varsity players. When my phone dings with a notification I swipe it off the coffee table and click into the email. I squeeze my phone tightly, quickly skimming the names, not bothering to pause long on mine. Then one particular name jumps out at me:
#9 Striker - Dacen Becker (senior)
“Groan,” I moan and run the fingers of my free hand through my hair, tugging on the ends roughly. The fluttery feeling that flashed through my stomach at the sight of his name? I’m one hundred percent chalking it up to irritation. I groan again and Aunt Lily jolts me out of my irritated thoughts when she leans over the back of the couch and plants a kiss on the top of my head.
“What’s got you all worked up, kiddo?”
“Huh?”
“You look as tense as a coil wound up and about to snap. What gives?” She tousles my hair playfully, which I hate. She holds her hands up in surrender at my mock-glare.
“Nothing,” I mumble and flop back against the couch cushions, propping my feet on the coffee table in front of me.
“Feet off the table, Ryne. Were you born in a barn?” Lily walks around the side of the couch and shoves my feet down.
A voice calls out behind us. “I don’t know, Aunt Lily, have you been in his room lately? It sure smells like a barn.”
Rylee, quite possibly the most annoying little sister on this side of the Mississippi, ambles into the room. She has zero sense of personal space sometimes, not that I would necessarily disagree about the smell. I accidentally left sweaty workout clothes in one of my gym bags a couple of weeks ago and just dug it out from the depths of my closet the other day. Talk about a potential science experiment. I’d tossed the bag down beside my running shoes and then promptly forgotten all about it. You work out around teenage guys long enough you start to block out smells after a while.
I shrug and crane my neck around to peer over the back of the couch, barely managing to catch her eye as she scoots past like she’s being chased. A flash of blonde hair is just about all I make out. “Shut yer trap, brat.” Rylee sticks her tongue out at me and vanishes around the corner into the safety of the kitchen. “Stay out of my goddamn room and you won’t have to smell it!” I shout after her.
“Language, Ryne.” My aunt gently chides me.
I wave my hands toward the kitchen in a dramatic sweeping gesture. “Boundaries, Aunt Lily. She needs to stay the hell outta my room.”
My aunt opens her mouth to retort but I’m distracted by Rylee as she saunters out of the kitchen. My eyes zero in on the t-shirt she’s wearing. The t-shirt that’s about three times too big for her small frame. The t-shirt that I just bought last week and haven’t even worn yet. She takes a bite of an apple and I shoot straight up off the couch.
“That’s my new Skynyrd t-shirt. What the fuck, Ry?”
“Ryne Patrick Sutton, you watch your mouth!” my aunt snaps more forcefully and gives me The Look. I suppress a shudder and stand up straighter.
“She stole my shi—stuff, Lily. I am not cool with that. You joke about me being born in a barn, but you’ve got a looter living under your roof.” I turn toward my sister and rub the pressure point on my forehead. “You don’t even listen to Skynyrd, Ry. They don’t sing any of the pop shit you like. Go change out of my shirt and stay out of my room.” I narrow my eyes at her, and that little shit sticks her tongue out at me, gives me a wicked grin while shaking her head back and forth, and runs up the stairs toward her room. A few seconds later her door slams shut. Lily sighs and I turn to face her. Exasperation is clearly written all over her face, but come on, I’m not the thief here.
“I swear to God, Lily, I’m about five seconds away from committing sororicide. It’s the second time this week she’s stolen my clothes. And why does she want to wear her seventeen-year-old brother’s clothes? My stuff’s not even her style.”
