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“So, yeah. I’ve been a prick lately,” he admits. “I don’t know how to let out all this frustration, you know? She’s pulling away from me. And I miss her. I’m constantly wondering where she is and what she’s doing.”
She’s fucking me, bro.
I keep that to myself too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RYDER
Butterfly mating habits
THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE ALL THE GUYS ARE FRESH AND ALERT after sleeping in their own beds—or a sorority girl’s bed, in Beckett’s case—Colson and I look like we just got stateside from a survival show. After the bus picked us up, I managed to sleep for two hours at home before catching a ride with Shane for our lifting session. I was too tired to drive.
At Eastwood, we could lift based on our own schedules, but Briar requires a training regimen where we lift together as a team. Everyone is already in the weight room when I walk in.
“He lives,” Beckett says, grinning when he spots me. He must have come here directly from the sorority house. “I was expecting to see you walk in wearing a squirrel-skin hat or something.”
“We almost did kill a cheetah,” Case says, smacking my arm good-naturedly.
More than a few sets of eyebrows soar at that.
“Double Cs,” Trager says, wandering over to fist-bump Case. “You good, bro?” He shoots me a wary look.
Colson notices and sighs. “All right, everyone. Listen up.” He claps his hands.
Guys stop what they’re doing, sitting up on their weight benches, to focus on Colson. Demaine, who was spotting Joe Kurth, returns the barbell to its position. Near the back mirror, Rand and Mason set down the dumbbells they were deadlifting.
“We wanted to apologize for what happened during the game last night,” Colson starts. “Brown shouldn’t have scored that goal. The penalty was on us, and it wasn’t captain behavior.” He glances at me, and I nod my agreement. “Going forward, we need to be a team. A real team.” His face becomes pained. “As much as I hate Nance and Sheldon, I think they have a point about this communication stuff.”
Several skeptical looks are exchanged.
“So, I’ll start.” His gaze lands on Shane. “Lindley. Your slapshots are beautiful, man. I’ve never seen that kind of power.”
Shane is startled. “Oh. Thanks.”
Case tips his head at me.
I lock my gaze on Trager because he seems like one of the better options to try to win over. “Trager. You nailed that penalty kill yesterday.”
He narrows his eyes at me. Then, noticing Case watching him, he gives a brisk nod.
Colson crosses his arms over his chest. “All right. Somebody else go. We’re going to shower each other with fucking compliments until we’re all swimming in goddamn dopamine.”
“Lindley knows all about that,” Nazzy says solemnly, and Shane flips him the bird.
After a beat of hesitation, Will Larsen addresses his secret best friend. “Beckett. You use the edges better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Beck nods. “Thanks, mate.” In response, he says, “Your shot is a goddamn laser beam.”
And on and on it goes, everyone complimenting one another. It’s definite progress.
Not everyone has been won over, though. Later, when I’m heading for the showers, Rand pulls me aside, speaking in a low voice.
“Is this for real? You’re friends with Colson now?”
I shrug. I wouldn’t call us friends, but I can’t deny we had a fun night, despite being marooned in the wilderness. Dude’s funny.
Really, now that we’ve called a ceasefire, the only thing hindering a true friendship between us is the girl who texts me when I leave the locker room twenty minutes later.
GISELE:
I think I left my necklace at your house. Can I come over and look for it?
I grin at the phone. This chick is the best.
ME:
Actually, I’m on campus. Want me to come to you instead?
GISELE:
Really?
ME:
Why not? Does your roommate know about us?
GISELE:
Yeah. Come over.
I park my Jeep in the lot outside Hartford House and make my way to the dorm, reaching the front entrance as a willowy Black woman steps out. It’s Gigi’s roommate, Mya. I recognize her from the day I showed up here with flowers.
Which she doesn’t let me forget.
Amusement gleams in her eyes. “Flower boy. How’s it going?”
I give her a pained look. “Let’s not make ‘flower boy’ a thing. I have a reputation to protect.”
“That’s not a promise I’m willing to make. G’s upstairs.”
Mya steps back to the door and pokes her head into the lobby.
“Hey, Spencer, he’s not a murderer,” she calls to the security guard at the desk, jabbing a finger at me. Then she gestures for me to enter. “Later, flower boy.”
Gigi’s room is on the second floor. She greets me in a pair of black booty shorts that are barely visible beneath a purple hockey jersey that’s clearly custom made because when she turns, the back reads only her initials, GG, stitched on in white.
Her bedroom is as girly as I expect from her, considering she’s a rabid fan of butterflies. There’s a patterned bedspread and colorful throw pillows. Pictures of her with friends and family tacked on a bulletin board above her desk. And a couple of framed prints featuring, of course, butterflies.
