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“Having that stick removed from your ass would make you a better teammate,” I toss back.
“Being friendly is not on my priority list.”
I grab two cinnamon rolls just because he’s being a dick and shove one in my mouth while I stare at him. I groan around the sweet bread and smirk when the muscle in his jaw jumps. Carpenter steps out of line behind Preston, and when he turns to see me, his face flushes bright red, and his eyes get as big as saucers, then hustles away toward the tables. That’s weird.
“Your poor choices affect all of us when it makes you a shitty player.” Preston’s holier-than-thou tone makes me want to touch him just to rile him up.
I flip him the bird and scan my meal card at the counter, then find a table. Paul follows after me with his scrambled eggs and oatmeal.
“You know you’re just encouraging him to fuck with you, right?” Paul says.
“Fuck him.”
Paul snorts, “Pretty sure Jeremy has that handled.”
I snap my gaze to his while he tries to hide a smile.
“What?” he asks, and I burst out laughing.
I drop my head back on my shoulders with an overexaggerated groan. “Preston is as much fun as a broken stick stuck in the mud.” I pick at my food, regretting my decision but refusing the back down now that I’ve made a stand. “I bet he doesn’t even know how to laugh or smile.”
“Maybe Jeremy has a degradation kink,” Paul says so casually I choke on my food and start coughing.
“I—uh.” I shake my head and try to think back to the times we’ve hooked up. “Okay, that’s a solid maybe.”
Paul looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Interesting. What about you?”
Unease has heat crawling up my neck. “What about me?”
“Do you like to be degraded?” The air around Paul shifts, and suddenly, he’s looking at me like he did in the locker room when he was in his suit. It makes me want to beg, but I have never begged for sex. Not ever.
“Um.” I clear the clog from my throat. “I’m not really sure.”
“No?” Paul leans in until his breath brushes my cheek. “Are you a needy little cock slut?” My body tenses, and my cock starts to thicken under the table. “Or maybe you’re a good little cock sucker? Hmm? Do you need some praise with your degradation?”
Goose bumps break out along my skin on a shudder, my eyes are too wide, and my face is hot when I turn to look at him.
He winks at me with a knowing smile on his lips and sits back in his chair. The bastard. What is he playing at?
No one has ever talked to me like that. Jeremy isn’t a dirty talker, and most of my other hookups were either quickies in a bathroom or with chicks. I’ve never considered some kind of talking kink for myself, but I know I’m going to be thinking about those words every time I jack off from here on out.
Does he really think that of me, though? I guess it’s not really wrong. I use sex as a way to feel connected, to feel like I’m enough.
A lump forms in my throat, and I drop my gaze back to my plate. I’m not really hungry anymore, and now that the idea is in my head, my leg starts bouncing. Fuck. I’m such a mess.
He’s not going to want to deal with my bullshit. Maybe I should just be abstinent.
I check the time on my phone and stand up. “I gotta take a shower and head to class, later.”
I can feel Paul’s eyes on me as I dump my tray and leave, but I don’t turn around. Nothing makes sense right now, and I know if I look at him, all I’ll want to do is crawl into his lap and have him play with my hair. I can’t be needy.
* * *
By the time I get back to the dorm after classes and practice, I’m exhausted. I’ve showered, and the second I step into our room, I kick off my shoes and face-plant onto my bed. I don’t want to be alone. I desperately want to be pressed against Paul, but I force myself to stand on my own. Wrapping my blanket around myself tightly, I face the wall. I wish I wasn’t so fucking weak. That I didn’t crave the comfort of physical touch. I hate that I need reassurance from the people around me that they don’t hate me.
Tears burn my eyes, and I don’t try to hold them in. There’s no soul-altering sobs racking my body, just the sting of anxiety-fueled desperation pricking at my heart to drip down my face and dampen my pillow. Pain leaving a mark on the fabric that will be washed away like it never existed. If only the internal scars could be washed away as easily.
The door opens as I’m on the edge of falling asleep. I’m aware of Paul moving around the room, but I’m not awake enough to have a conversation or track his movements. My bed dips behind me, and I open my eyes, turning to see Paul sitting against my headboard with his laptop on his legs.
