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"Well, hate to break it to you, but I don't indulge in explicit content!" she said, standing her ground.
"But you watch it!" I shot back, grasping her wrist a little too tightly.
"Shut up, Dax!" she finally snapped, pulling her wrist away from my grip.
Chapter Sixteen
Dax
Sweat stung my eyes as I peeled off the jersey, the humid air clinging to my skin like a second shirt. Greg tossed me a towel, which I snatched and scrubbed furiously, the fabric soaking up the rivulets like a thirsty sponge. Dumped that sweat-monster in the bin – no way it was seeing the light of day again. Not that I couldn't afford a new one, mind you, just principle.
"Classes?" I panted, the question barely escaping my oxygen-deprived lungs.
Greg, bless his ever-knowing soul, just chuckled. "Nah, not much. Figured you wouldn't care anyway."
Right on the money, as usual. "Good call," I wheezed, grateful for his silent understanding. Dude knew me better than I knew myself sometimes.
He swapped my shoes for a fresh pair, his deft hands working without fuss. By the time I felt vaguely human again, the rest of the guys were streaming off the field.
"Got plans after this?" Greg asked, eyeing me with something suspiciously knowing.
"Depends," I mumbled, playing it cool. "Mood-dependent kinda day."
He grinned. "Just figured we could gather the history crew and brainstorm the next project. You know, put those brain cells to good use and all."
"Brain cells?" I snorted, but a smile tugged at my lips. Greg loved flexing his brainiac muscle, and who was I to deny him his fun? "Alright, alright, Einstein." I said playing along, well for a while.
The history project idea bounced off me like a dodgeball against a brick wall. "Nope," I declared, the word thick with disinterest. "Don't think I'm a fan of the social-gathering-for-academia vibe." Laziness, my eternal companion, chimed in – a chorus of mental shrugs and yawns drowning out Greg's valiant attempt to ignite my academic spirit.
"But dude, the project…" His voice trailed off, knowing full well my aversion to anything with group-work stench.
"Let's be honest," I cut in, "my historical expertise doesn't exactly rival Einstein's, and frankly, the mere thought of group brainstorming sends shivers down my spine." My inner monologue cackled – who needed tedious discussions when you could just hire professionals to whip up a masterpiece worthy of a Pulitzer? Or, better yet, let Greg and the crew slave away while I kicked back, judging their efforts from the comfort of a strategically placed tabletop throne.
"C'mon, Dax," Greg persisted, "it's a group project. Collaboration, synergy, all that jazz." He launched into a mini-lecture, but my attention flitted like a butterfly, landing on the absurdity of Tresa trying to decipher ancient scrolls. Poor girl needed a history decoder ring, not academic discourse.
"Look," I interrupted, charm oozing like butter on toast, "I'm not saying I'll be MIA on the project. I'll be there…in spirit, like a benevolent history ghost. Just don't forget to add 'Dax - the Invisible Academic Avenger' to the credits, okay?" My grin turned smug as Greg's jaw slackened. Victory was mine, the battle against group boredom momentarily won.
Underneath the cool, apathetic facade, a tiny part of me acknowledged the absurdity of my own actions. I could handle a group project, of course. But the prospect of mingling, sharing, the very human messiness of it all…just felt exhausting. So, yeah, Greg and the others could have their brainstorming while I spun elaborate daydreams about my invisible academic heroism. Besides, who wouldn't want to be the ultimate fly on the wall, silently judging their historical prowess from atop a metaphorical coffee table? Tresa, maybe. But that's another story entirely.
The air crackled between us, the unspoken question hanging heavy like a half-inflated basketball. Greg's casual "Um, you kissed Tresa today?!" felt more like a grenade lobbed into my peaceful post-game haze.
"Yeah," I hissed, more out of surprise than anything. The taste of her strawberry lip gloss still lingered, a phantom reminder of the impulsive move I couldn't quite explain.
"So, you two back together?" Greg's voice was cautious, probing the edges of a topic I wasn't sure I wanted to touch.
"Jesus, Greg, no! One kiss doesn't erase years of emotional baggage." I scoffed, trying to sound light, but the echo of her name in my head felt like a broken record.
He chuckled, a nervous hitch that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right, just checking. You know, making sure you're both officially out of that...damn relationship."
"Yeah, single as a dollar," I mumbled, more to myself than him.
"Good," he said, a little too enthusiastically. "Because," he hesitated, then blurted out, "I kinda tried to shoot my shot with her."
I blinked, surprised. Greg? With Tresa? The thought sent a jolt of something through me, a mix of amusement and a strange, possessive protectiveness. "And? How'd it go, Casanova?"
He winced. "Hard. Your ex is, uh, high maintenance."
"Tresa isn't high maintenance," I protested, a flicker of annoyance igniting in my gut. "She just has...expectations."
