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But she hadn’t responded.
Maybe it was better if she didn’t want to sit with him. He could confront Becca or the Merricks and get them to carry some of the weight of Calla’s threats.
He checked his phone while he waited to grab a tray for the line.
Blank.
Hunter sighed and slid it into his pocket, taking an apple, a plate of grilled chicken and greens, and a bowl of vegetable soup. He didn’t have to wait for any of it—there was never a line for this stuff. But over by the tater tots, you’d think they were giving food away.
When he turned away from the register, Calla was suddenly there, in front of him. She had a soda in one hand and a wicked look in her eye.
He scowled and moved to step past her.
But she ran her shoulder into his and shrieked, stumbling back and dropping her soda. “Don’t threaten me, Hunter!”
One of the assistant football coaches was on cafeteria duty and headed their way. “What’s going on?”
Hunter gritted his teeth and backed away from her. “Nothing.”
“He shoved me!”
“I didn’t touch her!”
The coach put a restraining hand on Hunter’s shoulder—even though he hadn’t moved an inch. “Just keep walking. Cool off.”
Calla dissolved into tears. People were staring. Another girl from the volleyball team came up and pulled Calla away, whispering reassurances while throwing a murderous glance at Hunter.
It had taken Calla less than three seconds to completely derail his day. Again.
Hunter sighed through clenched teeth and turned to head for the back of the cafeteria.
Only to meet Kate’s eyes from twenty feet away.
One look at her expression said she’d seen the whole thing.
Well, definitely not the whole thing. Just enough to leave her staring with judgment on her face.
There went that.
At least she’d found a cure for his staring. He couldn’t meet her eyes knowing she thought he was a guy like . . . like that. He faced forward and kept walking, his hands gripping his tray so hard the surface of the soup was trembling.
His insides felt like a coiled spring, one rotation away from snapping. He kept his movement measured and even, but in his brain, every step was a prelude to a lethal strike. He’d never been one of those guys to hit the gym in the middle of the day, but right now he’d kill for a pair of wraps and a heavy bag.
He forced himself to take a long breath, letting it out slowly, forcing his hands to relax while he walked.
“Hey, Jackass. Hungry?” A hand hit the edge of the tray and flipped it up.
Hunter jerked back. The chicken and salad missed him.
The soup didn’t. Hot liquid hit him square in the chest.
That spring snapped. Hunter whirled and threw a fist.
Gabriel Merrick hit him back.
Hunter stepped into the punch, using his opponent’s momentum to trap his arm and send a knee into his gut.
Then they were being dragged apart. Too soon. Hunter tasted blood on his lip—but he let himself be dragged.
