He’s bigger than me with all his Blood Gators football gear on, a fact his smug self seems to appreciate. I walk right up to him, not daunted by the stupid show of intimidation. Gage and I have always tolerated each other because we were teammates who shared the same friends. I’ve never liked him the way I do Cain and Damon, though. Something about him irritates me. Always has.
“Coach will let you back on the team,” he says, eyeing me as though he can’t seem to understand why. “He thinks you’re going through a phase.”
His words rankle me. “I’m happy where I’m at.”
“Running with that faggot?”
It takes a second for the slur to catch up to my brain. “The fuck you say?”
“Come on, Voss,” he scoffs, his lip curling up, “you can’t actually enjoy doing this track shit. Is it because you want to show up Sommers, or because you’re hoping he’ll let you suck on his dick?”
I shove him hard, sending him flying backward over the bench. He lands on his back with a grunt. With a growl, he leaps back to his feet, his hands fisted as rage thrums through him, making him shake.
“Maybe you prefer it up the ass. No wonder you couldn’t satisfy Naomi—”
My fist swings out, but it’s stopped when two arms grab me from behind. Damon steps in front of Gage to keep him from coming after me. It takes me a second to recognize the salty lime scent that belongs to Alis. I try to shake him off me, but he’s tugging me away from Gage.
“That’s what I thought,” Gage barks at me. He makes a crude gesture of sucking a dick, which sets me off. Before I can charge at him again, Alis twists me around and shoves me back toward the track.
“What the hell?” I snap, glowering at him over my shoulder.
“You fight with him, and you’ll be suspended from the track meet on Saturday.”
“So?”
“So, how am I supposed to gloat for beating your ass when your ass isn’t there to beat?” His dark brow lifts in question. “I kind of need you there to stroke my ego.”
The devious glint in his mahogany orbs alludes to much more than his ego being stroked. Fucking Sommers. He’s a little shit-stirrer in my life. It’s annoying.
“Come on,” he says, motioning with a chin nod to the track, “let’s have a little preview of this weekend.”
Smug bastard.
When I beat him by a sixteenth of a second, I feel on top of the world. I’m doubled over, panting for air, when I catch his amused expression. Fucker let me win. Asshole.
I flip him off and growl, “Again.”
The next time, he beats me all-too-easily, and damn if I still don’t feel on top of the world.
Alister
I don’t know where Canyon is by the time I reach his house after practice with Carrie in tow, but I’m eager for another chance to snoop around in his space without him breathing down my neck. While Carrie makes some pizza rolls for us, I head upstairs to sneak another peek into Canyon’s room. I twist the knob and push inside, immediately annoyed to find the bed in disarray and more clothes littering the floor.
I’m thankful to see he’s washed my clothes. They’re folded neatly and sitting at the end of his unmade bed. I shove them into my bag before dropping it to the floor so I can do something about his mess. Cleaning up his space goes quicker since it’s not as bad as the last time I was in here.
I carry a pair of shoes into his closet and find more discarded clothes in there that need picking up. When I find a whole row of costumes hanging, I snigger. What the actual fuck? I push the hangers down along the pole and then slowly push each outfit aside. Most are some variation of a similar-looking ensemble—a high-collared black button-up jacket with orange stitching. Above the costumes on a shelf is a clear plastic tub filled with what looks like wigs.
So fucking weird.
Wait a minute…
I walk back into his room, and my eyes fixate on the Mubōna Ikari—whatever the fuck that means—poster on the wall. One character, with black hair and orange at the ends, bares his teeth and holds a sword outward. The other character, a smaller guy with white hair that hangs down over one eye while shaved short on the other side, smirks as he toys with a small but lethal-looking knife at his side. Obviously, it’s a good versus evil story. The sword dude is the bad guy for sure, making sense as to why Canyon wants to dress up like him. I snort out a laugh.
“Something funny?”
That’s twice now this guy has caught me nosing around in his room. I shrug and gesture at the poster. “Didn’t take you for a nerd.”
Heat envelops me from behind, and Canyon rests his chin on top of my head. It should feel condescending as fuck, but it doesn’t. Warmth curls in my balls at our proximity. His soapy scent invades me, taking up residence in my lungs.
“Anime isn’t nerdy. It happens to be really popular,” he argues, his breath tickling my hair.
I suck in and hold my own breath when his palms settle on my hips. Not wanting to break the moment because his touch feels like electricity pulsating through me, I remain perfectly still and say, “But the dressing up as the villain is the nerdy part.”
“No, I dress up as Daisuke. He’s the good guy.”
“He’s dressed in black and looks mean.” I point to the bigger character with black and orange hair. “Looks villainous to me.”
“Actually,” he says, his voice hitching and sounding giddy, “Chibi is technically the villain. Well, his parents are. He was basically born into a Japanese mob family. Their families are enemies. Through over half the series, Chibi and Daisuke are always battling.”
My eyes flutter closed when I feel his fingers tease at the flesh just above the waistband of my jeans and under my T-shirt. His touch is frustrating. I want to hate it, but I don’t. Not even close.
“What happens halfway through the series?” My voice is a mere whisper, gravelly and hoarse.
“They get a taste of each other’s lives. Before they knew what the other dealt with day to day, they were envious of each other.” His palm slides up over my stomach, making me nearly whimper. “Once they saw how it really was for the other, they began to feel bad. They went from hating each other, to understanding each other, to befriending each other.”
“So enemies to friends?”
His chin leaves the top of my head to brush his lips against my ear. This time, I can’t contain the shudder that trembles through me. “Enemies to lovers.”
My heart pounds hard in my chest. Whatever war that’s been going on between us feels out of our control now. We’ve somehow gone from opposing sides to meeting in the middle, the magnetism drawing us together rather than pushing us apart. I want him to unfasten my jeans and take my cock in his hand. To stroke me until I come. Just like this. While we stare at the dumb cartoon characters.
His hand tickles its way up toward my pectoral muscle, dragging my T-shirt up along with it. He brushes a thumb over my hard nipple, making me squeak out in surprise.
“So sensitive,” he taunts before pinching me. “I bet you’d let me do filthy things to you. Like bite your nipple while my dick was inside you. Am I right?”