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I’m surprised he’s going to allow me to do this. I mean, his career is on the line too. If we lose this season, it looks bad for Coach. It sucks my ability to make a passing grade affects so many people. Coach’s job. Dad’s reputation. My future.
“And, McAlister?” Coach says lowly. “Don’t mention this retake. Benson and Hoffman both failed, but they’re not critical to this game. If we win against Edison, the rest of the season is ours. We need our quarterback. Get your head out of the clouds. I need you to bring me a C and then I need you to get out there and play your A game. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I grumble, irritated that he’s giving me special treatment.
“Go on, now. Your time is ticking and we’re all counting on you.”
No pressure, Coach. No freaking pressure.
I’m tapping away on my essay when I hear familiar giggling nearby. I cringe because I know that evil laugh. Ivy Cunningham. Tall, blond, and vicious. She’s also Copeland’s longtime girlfriend. I’ve never seen her be nice to anyone. The only person she’s remotely endurable to is Cope. I wonder why he tolerates her.
She comes into view, just beyond a row of book shelves, and I know why. The girl is drop-dead gorgeous. Like runway model beautiful. Her body is lean and curved in all the right places. A true goddess among a sea of lowly mortals. Even I, a gay guy in love with her boyfriend, can’t ignore her beauty. My gaze skims up her body from her black, heeled boots, along her black leggings, over her fitted black tunic, before settling on her dark red lipstick. Her bright green eyes, her crimson lips, and her wild mane of blond beach waves are the only color on her. She, like Cope, seems to prefer black over all other colors. They’re a devilish couple. A king and queen of deviance.
When she catches me staring, one corner of her lips quirks up. At one time, back in middle school when she wore pink instead of black, she’d crushed on me. I was always finding letters written in her girly flourishes stuffed in my backpack. It was awkward because I had no attraction to her whatsoever. Ivy was pretty—still is for that matter—but not my type.
My type steps around the corner, not noticing my presence at first. He hooks Ivy around the waist and pushes her back into the shelves. His grin for her makes my heart stutter in my chest and a flush of heat skim over my flesh. She playfully slaps his face but then grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Before their lips meet, his head slowly turns my way. The smile on his face slips away and his blue eyes flicker with hatred.
All I can do is stare.
It’s all I can ever do.
I’m confident in every aspect of my life, except when it involves Cope.
With his eyes on mine, he kisses her pouty lips. Nips at her bottom lip. Teases me at what I’ll never have.
I can’t look away.
I watch him kiss her obnoxiously. All for show. Too much tongue and not enough emotion. He kisses her to punish me. Each second lashes at me painfully.
And still I can’t peel my eyes from them.
Bored with his kiss, he pulls away from her and turns my way. With me sitting and him standing there looking like a demigod who climbed from the depths of Hell, all I can do is remain stiff. It’s as though he might actually speak to me. An ache burns in my gut. A longing so intense it hurts.
He takes a step forward.
Ivy clutches his wrist. Jealousy flares in her green orbs. She’s angry his attention is gone from her. That I’m the lucky recipient in these moments.
“What’s that?” he demands, his voice cold and cruel.
I break his gaze to look down at my open history book and the essay on my laptop. “Uh,” I croak out, unable to find words.
“Uh…uh…uh…” Ivy mocks, “I think he got tackled one too many times, Cope.”
Cope bristles at her words. “Get me a Pepsi.” He pulls out some ones from his pocket and pushes them into her hand.
Her body tenses at being told what to do. She opens her mouth like she might argue, but instead snatches the cash from him. “Whatever,” she grumbles and storms off.
His icy blue eyes narrow as he steps closer. I catch a whiff of his familiar scent and it burns through me, leaving heartache in its wake. “What’s that?” he asks again, his voice low and deadly.
I clench my jaw and shrug. “History essay.”
“The one you failed?” he sneers. “Coach must really need you at tonight’s game.”
Shame punches me right in the gut. Copeland of all people knows what it feels like for people to make special circumstances because of your family name. He just pretends otherwise. At the end of the day, though, his dad runs this town with his fat wallet.
