“Yeah, why?” Until very recently it was Mom’s, but whatever.
“Figured a hipster-wannabe would have a matching ride.”
What the hell? I’m not trying to make some statement with it. It’s just a way to get from point A to point B. These guys probably drive jacked-up trucks, compensating for small dicks with large, manly vehicles. Maybe my compact SUV threatens their precious egos.
“Watch that pretty mouth of yours, dumb ass,” Adonis bites out.
Oops. Did I say that out loud?
“I’ll ask you one more time.” Ryne leans forward again and presses his fingertips onto the tabletop. “Take your pretty-boy bag and get the fuck out of our spot.”
“Aww, you both think I’m pretty?” I hold a hand to my chest and give my best heart-eyes emoji impression. “I’m flattered. And that wasn’t really a question.”
This isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last time my mouth gets me into trouble. The next thing I know, Adonis grabs my tray of food, saunters over to the nearest trash can, and dumps my burger and fries inside, tray and all. It hits the bottom with a thud. I let out a strangled cry and jump up from my seat. My fists are clenched but I do my best to keep my voice down.
“What the hell is your problem? I was eating that.”
I gaze longingly at the trash can that now holds one of the best burgers I’ve ever had and hold back the pained whimper that wants to escape this injustice. I’m talking about homemade sauce, fried pickles, pickled sweet onions—the works. The burger of all burgers now lies at the bottom of the trash can, wasted. I walk straight into a wall of muscle with its arms crossed when I turn around and stumble. Ryne reaches out and grabs my biceps to steady me. The glare I shoot him apparently amuses him, as he cocks an eyebrow and smirks.
“Looks like you’re all done now, Becker.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him call me anything other than “uh, the dude with the purple shirt” or “number nine” since practice started. Although I prefer Dacen, the way it rolls off his tongue sends flutters through my stomach and a sudden rush of heat through my body. My tongue darts out to wet my lips and I drag the lower one slowly through my teeth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Ryne’s gaze was locked on my mouth just now, tracking the movement. I slip my tongue out again and slowly lick the corner of my mouth to test that theory and yep, his eyes follow. So quickly I’m not sure if I imagine it or not, Ryne strokes my left arm with his thumb, and then he drops his hands, letting me go. I stand there stupidly wondering if we just had some kind of moment, which is weird honestly, considering the lead-up to it. But then he opens his mouth again and ruins any thought of moments past, present, or future.
“Get lost.” His words are clipped.
My attention wavers when friend number three, a guy I’d not paid much attention to, reaches over and picks up my bag. Inspecting it closely he holds it up in one hand.
“What’s this preppy pansy-ass shit you got here?”
He looks down at the label again, silently mouthing each word of the brand name, and then rubs his chin, as if pondering some deep thought. I scoff because I can’t imagine Fat Head (not that he has a fat head; his head is indeed appropriately proportioned to his body and on it is a very attractive face and quite possibly the most striking eyes I’ve ever seen) or any of this group, maybe excluding Tyler, has actually ever had more than a superficial thought in their entire lives.
“Which is it?” I droll out. Ryne frowns, eyes narrowed, and his upper lip curls up on one side again.
“Which is what?” he spits out.
I point one finger toward him. “You called me a hipster-wannabe, and your friend here,” I point at the guy currently palming my bag. “He says I’m a pansy-ass prep. Maybe pick one insult and stick with it. Consistency is key, after all.”
That last sentence I say in an extra-deep voice, mimicking Coach King. Tyler chuckles. Ryne sends him some very obvious vibes but they deflect right off Tyler and he grins. My bag drops back down on the table with a plop and the contents spill out. Fat Head grabs my planner and flips the pages quickly with one hand.
“What’s this? Your diary?”
I quickly step over to him, snatch it from his hands, and hold it to my chest protectively. “It’s not a diary, not that it’s any of your business.”
Fat Head speaks again. “Well, Herschel, if you’re as smart as you try to look, you’ll go now before my friend really gets impatient.”
“It’s Dacen Becker, not Herschel.”
“What-the-fuck-ever. Take your shit and go, Dacen Becker.”
He says my name like it puts a bad taste in his mouth. Yeah, well, you leave a bad taste in mine too, Fat Head. I scoop my things back into my bag and slide the planner on top before zipping it shut. As much as it grates on my nerves, at this point I think it’s best if I leave, otherwise, this pointless exchange is just going to continue.
Muttering under my breath, I sling the bag across my chest and then make a dramatic sweep of my hands toward the table. “Have at it. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite anyway.”
I stomp toward the door with a flourish but force myself to slow down as I walk past the register. Sweet and funny Ms. Opal is still there and I don’t want to draw any negative attention to myself. She gives me a wave and calls out, “See you again soon, sweetie.”
I manage to give her a smile and a little wave. When I reach my car, I fumble angrily through the pockets of my messenger bag, searching for my keys.
“Damn it, I know they were in here.”
