Colt lifts his hands in surrender and reads my thoughts. Or he knows me too well. “That doesn’t count.”
“Does too.”
“Does not.”
“Does too.”
“Doesn’t.”
“Do—” Colt cuts me off by squeezing my mouth shut with his fingers.
“Not happening.”
I pout. Sticking my bottom lip out and giving him the puppy-dog eyes and everything. Normally the pout works and he gives me whatever I want.
“Don’t give me the eyes, Em. I’m not kissing you.”
“Why?” It’s a kiss. It isn’t hard. It means nothing. It can be a practice run for when the real thing finally happens.
“Because friends don’t kiss friends.” He nods once, finality in his tone.
“But friends play with friends’ boobs?”
“One time. That happened one time, and it was...”
“For practice. Yeah, yeah. I remember. It was only a few weeks ago. This kiss would be the same,” I plead with him. About a month ago when he was nervous about his date because Eliza was ‘experienced’ and he wasn’t, I was a good friend and let him touch my breasts, so he didn’t make a fool of himself on his date. Eliza is notorious for letting her dates get to second base in the back row of the cinemas. What sort of friend would I have been if I let Colt go into that blind, groping her chest like a rock climber trying to find purchase on a cliff face before they fell to their death?
A terrible friend.
And a terrible friend I am not. So, I let him touch my boobs. It wasn’t awful. There were tingles, a little spark of something. I wouldn’t say no to letting him do it again. But it’s time he repaid me.
“Em, I’ll do anything for you. I’ve told you that, shown you that. You say jump, I’ll jump off the tallest building in the world. But this? I can’t.” He pauses and reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair from my face. “I’m sorry.”
I cup his hand against my face and close my eyes. “It’s okay. It was a stupid idea,” I say before adding, “but I’m holding you to that ‘I’d do anything for you’ bullshit in the future. Next thing I ask, you can’t say no.”
“Deal.” Colt grins and pulls his hand from my face before jumping from the bed and crossing his room.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s our last night and Dad’s alone downstairs.”
I smile and stand, reading his thoughts. I don’t want to leave Mr. James downstairs alone either. “What are we waiting for?”
5
Colt
Seven months later
* * *
Everything freezes. My breath. My movements. The guy in front of me. The entire room falls so silent you can hear a hair drop. Not a pin. Those tinny-sounding fuckers are loud in a quiet environment. A hair.
My gaze follows the orange blur as though it’s moving in slow motion. It arcs through the air toward its goal.
No one moves. No one breathes. Not even a heartbeat as the ball sails through the air into the hoop, and then my breath rushes out as I sigh in relief. My arms drop and the crowd erupts into cheers, and claps, and shouts. The noise is deafening. The thudding of feet as my teammates rush toward me. Their hot, sweaty hands on my skin as they lift me into the air above their shoulders for a victory lap. The slow drag of the other teams’ feet as they shuffle defeated from the court.
We’ve just won the National Championship.
I’ve just won the National Championship.
My goal. The winning goal. We were playing against the best college team in the league. Undefeated for the last four years until this year. The only difference between this year and the last four, is me.
Coach comes barreling toward us, knocking my teammates out of the way. “You little fucking beauty!” He reaches up to fist-bump me. “We couldn’t have done it without you!”
“Duh.”
FU had had a terrible run in recent years. They offer the best sports program in the country, the best coaches and training equipment, but they’re lacking in the winning department. They can’t live up to their reputation. I’m here to put their reputation back on the map.
Not a bad effort for a rookie, busting my balls to prove my worth. Coach bit the bullet and made me shooting guard for the last few games.
Totally paid off.
We are the fucking champions.
It’s a surreal feeling. The pure joy and excitement of winning, of knowing I’m the reason we’re here and the realization I finally fit in. I’m part of a team. My teammates have become friends, sort of. They accept my impulsiveness. They seem to admire it, they follow me around, hang on every word I say, almost competing for my attention.
I’ve never had that before. My whole life people have overlooked me, rolled their eyes at my behavior or reprimanded me for it. Now though, on this team I’m praised for my abrasiveness, my lack of empathy and not giving a shit about anyone. I do what I want, when I want, and the guys love it.
After all the handshakes and polite talk, I can’t wait to get to the locker rooms to have a shower and get the hell out of there. I love the game. I love the team. I love winning. But all that schmoozing and talking, needing to be ‘on’ all the time is draining. I have to focus on what I’m doing, what I’m saying. I need to remain calm and professional at all times during the presentation. It’s exhausting, when all I want to do is grab Em and go get some ice-cream. Not even a celebratory beer. I want a choc-dipped ice-cream with crushed peanuts. I don’t drink often, and if I do, it’s one beer.
I’m the first one in the locker room, like always. I grab my clothes and head for the showers. Em said she’ll meet me outside when I’m ready and I don’t want to keep her waiting too long. If Austin finds her in the hall alone, he’ll be all over her and she’ll likely break his jaw if he tries to make a move on her. So, I need to shower and change fast for both their sakes. Last thing I need is my point guard whining like a girl over a bruised face.
The sounds of the team cheering filters into the room. Their steps thunder down the hall and burst through the door as I shut off the shower and wrap the towel around my waist.
They're on a high, laughing and joking with each other. Roman apparently getting the afterparty started early. He wheels in a cooler and throws beers at everyone, including Coach who swears at him and throws it back, before walking off into the office. Two seconds later he reappears, crosses the floor, pulls the same beer out of the cooler and shrugs. “Fuck it.” He grins before retreating to his office again. The guys cheer.
Rome hands me a beer, but I shake my head and push it back to him.
“Nah, man,” I say, pulling my shorts on and discarding my towel on the bench.
“C’mon, dude, you deserve it. We fucking won.”
“Later. I’ve got to go. Em’s waiting for me.” He folds his arms over his chest and arches an eyebrow. The expression on his face says ‘whipped’, or ‘I can’t believe you’re blowing off the team when we should celebrate’.
“You’re coming to the party though, right?”