AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“James is incredible with the ball,” I blurt out. My random decision to bolster James’s ego in front of his dad draws both of their stares. I glance between both sets of wide eyes and frozen open-mouthed smiles.
“I mean at quarterbacking, is all. He’s good at it. Like, way better than anyone we’ve ever had. Probably because of how hard he works. You should be proud, I mean. Of his work ethic. And I’m sure he will be here early every morning. And . . .” I’m starting to panic-speak and judging by the shocked stare still fixed on both Fuentes men’s faces, I’m guessing I probably should have stopped after the word incredible.
“I pay Morgan to say nice things about me,” James says, letting me off the hook. I exhale, hoping my relief isn’t as apparent as it feels. I feel like an overblown balloon losing half its air.
“I did your dad for free,” I say, leaning in to whisper.
And this time even my eyes bug out.
Shut up, Morgan.
“All right, well, I’m about done. James, enjoy the rest of your workout. Mr. Fuentes, it was very nice to meet you. I have homework to get to. You all . . . carry on.” I flit my fingers at them both before turning around and clutching my keys to my chest. I don’t turn around a single time, and when I get back to my room, I avoid my phone for a full hour. This time not for the missed calls from my mother but because if I have a message from James asking if I’ve lost my mind I will have to answer honestly.
“Yes. Apparently I have,” I will say.
I give in when my roommates come home, and only because the absence of my phone will draw questions from them. When I see a DM from James, my stomach soaks with adrenaline and my fingers tingle.
Shit, shit, shit.
I open my messages while half-listening to Brooklyn talk about her day with Cameron. I click on James’s icon and hold my breath as I ready myself to read his message.
JAMES:For being so famous on social media you sure know how to make a conversation awkward. LOL. Seriously, though, my dad said you were delightful. His word, not mine. I don’t think you’re delightful. I think you’re incredible. I mean, not like as incredible as I am with the ball. You know, at quarterbacking, but . . .
I’m smiling to myself as I read his ribbing message, and Brooklyn stops speaking when she notices me.
“Who areyouchatting with?” she teases.
I hold my phone to my chest and meet her suspicious glare. It’s harmless nosiness between roommates, and these are the kinds of things Brooklyn and I talked about all the time when Anika was around. But for some reason, I feel strangely protective over whatever this is with James. I don’t want to share it, and maybe because I don’t know what to call it. Or maybe I’m protecting myself before it goes away, the way the good stuff always does.
“Just a meme,” I answer. She studies me for a beat but buys my response and goes right back into telling me about whatever Cameron did in the cafeteria this morning.
I prop my phone on my chest and send James a quick emoji of a middle finger. It takes him only seconds to respond. And the heart he sends in return literally flattens me.
Chapter10
James
Icould tell Morgan was embarrassed when she left. I could also tell my dad was not happy to see me in there alone with her. To make Morgan feel better, I messaged her and told her my dad enjoyed meeting her. And to soothe my dad’s not-so-subtle lifted eyebrow glare through his office window after Morgan left, I stayed and put in another hour of cardio and lifting. On top of the hour of work I’d already put in.
My body is limp, my muscles dead. If I had to hang onto the edge of a cliff for dear life right now, I’d be kissing my dear life goodbye. I’ve got nothing left. My fingers are even spent.
My mom doesn’t always work on Sundays, but sometimes if she takes on too many clients, she gets behind and has to go in to wrap up a quarter for someone. Because my father and I are basically helpless at feeding ourselves without her, or maybe because our taste buds are simply spoiled and unwilling to eat the bland shit we make on our own, she always leaves us with an ample serving of leftovers.
I pull out the chicken flautas she left wrapped in the fridge along with her detailed instructions, so I don’t ruin them. I’m starving, but it’s worth the extra time to heat up the oven. My mom’s right. While I punch in three-hundred-fifty degrees on the setting, my dad comes home and proceeds to unwrap his own portion, ignoring my mom’s best advice and nuking it for a minute thirty.
“They’re gonna be gross,” I warn.
My dad licks the dab of sauce from his fingertip after disposing of the tinfoil then looks at me.
“It’s your mother’s cooking. I could put it in a blender and warm it in the sun and it would still be amazing.” He grins, proud of his point, but I stick to the plan. Crispy always wins when it comes to flautas.
I fill my gallon bottle with ice and move to the sink to add water as my dad waits impatiently for his spinning plate in the microwave. He’s dumped his work bag and a pile of papers on the counter, and I start to flip through them.
“Don’t touch my stuff,” he scolds, his back to me. That eyes in the back of the head thing is real, I swear. Both of my parents have a knack for it.
“You working on next week’s game plan?” I ask.
The microwave dings, and my dad pulls out his plate, rushing it to the counter when he burns his fingers.
