I chew on the side of my cheek, my hands twisting in front of me, angry that we’re having this conversation at the baseball loft where anyone could hear us if the music died down for a second.
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does so matter if you’re about to hurt the one person who’s been by your side since the beginning of the school year. Do you honestly think you just finished your best regular season of your career only because of all the hard work you put in? Yes, there’s something to say about the extra hours, but credit should also go to Lincoln. He’s kept you calm, relaxed. You’ve actually had fun this season rather than being the stress ball you usually are, and there’s a reason for that. Are you just going to ruin that because you’re too afraid to make a move?”
“He doesn’t like me like that, Scarlett,” I say more angrily. “If he did, then we would have already kissed by now. Trust me, he’s had his opportunities. Okay? He sees me as a friend, and that’s fine. His mom had it wrong, I’m not leading him on.”
“He’s had opportunities to kiss you? When?” she asks, her voice soft, her hand going to mine.
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is he didn’t take them. And yes, I may be comfortable with him and maybe I lean on him a little too much, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t hook him up with someone he might actually want.”
Scarlett shakes her head. “I don’t know, Indie. I really think this is a big mistake.”
“Well, you have your opinion and I have mine.” With that, I walk away and into the center of the party, still debating if Jasmine would be a good fit. I know she’d love the opportunity to know Lincoln. I heard her proclaim that to the locker room before people knew Lincoln and I were good friends. But would he—
“There you are.” Strong arms wrap around my midsection as a pair of lips kiss the side of my head. “How was dinner with your mom?”
Lincoln turns me around in his arms and my heart leaps out of my chest, right between us, from the mere sight of him. Freshly showered, rid of all his body paint, he’s dressed in a simple navy-blue long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is styled in that artful, messy way like he just had epic sex, and he’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug his thighs and hips to perfection.
Easily the most attractive guy in the loft.
“Uh, dinner was fine.”
His brow pinches together. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. What did your mom say to you?”
“Nothing to worry about.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jasmine heading in our direction.
“Uh, when did I start not worrying about what’s going on in your life? You matter to me, so I want to know why you have that look in your eyes like you’re unsure if you want to cry or not.”
“I’m fine, Lincoln,” I say as my chest grows tight and emotions bubble up my throat. Why am I getting emotional? I shouldn’t be getting emotional. There’s nothing to be emotional about.
Get it together, Indie.
Turning just in time to grab Jasmine, I take her by the arm and say, “Come here, I want to introduce you to someone.”
“What?” Jasmine says, caught off guard. Ignoring her surprise, I bring her in front of Lincoln, who immediately frowns at me.
“Jasmine, I want to introduce you to Lincoln. Lincoln, this is Jasmine, a freshman on the soccer team. She has a crush on you, and I think you two would hit it off.”
“Oh my God, Indie, what are you doing?” she asks, horrified.
“Shh,” I whisper into her ear. “Be cool. I’m hooking you up.”
Because he’s a nice guy, Lincoln waves. Albeit, unnaturally, but he still waves. “Hey Jasmine.” Then he peeks around Jasmine, who has two inches on me with her heels, and he says, “Can I have a word with you, Indie?”
“Maybe later.” I push Jasmine closer to Lincoln. “You two get to know each other. I’m going to get a drink. Mingle.” I wiggle my fingers. “Talk to you later.”
I spin on my heel, my pulse skyrocketing, and my face heating to lava levels as I try to locate the drinks.
Kitchen. They’d be in the kitchen.
Beer is not going to do it for me. I need to go for the classic jungle juice that the boys are known for. I take a red cup from the stack and fill it to the top from the giant water cooler on the kitchen island, manned by two freshmen baseball players. If anything, the guys are extra safe about spiking of drinks, especially when they mix it themselves.
Drink in hand, I turn back around looking for someone, anyone to talk to.
Brandon from the basketball team. Perfect. He’ll do. We’ve had a few general education classes together.
“Hey Brandon,” I say, walking up to him.
“Indie, hey, amazing fucking win today. Congrats.”
“Thank you. Were you there?”
“Hell yeah. Got hooked attending your games after opening day. They’re intense. I swear my ass cheeks clench every time the ball gets close to the goal.” I chuckle and he winces. “Too much information?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s good to know we can make your butt cheeks clench.”
“Offense and defense,” he adds with a cheeky grin. “It’s not like basketball where you can turn around and quickly make up for that lost point. Getting the ball remotely close to the goal is a feat on its own, and then a goal. Hell, it makes sense why there’s such a celebration after each one. But hey, you guys didn’t take your shirts off like that Brandy girl in the Olympics.”
“Yeah, not all soccer players rip their shirts off to celebrate.”
“Shame, was kind of hoping for a show.” He chuckles and so do I.
“How’s your season going? I haven’t been able to catch any games yet,” I say.
“Our schedules make it hard to support each other, I get it. But it’s going pretty well. We got a transfer this year from Finland and holy shit, the guy is good. Tall, scary as shit, deep voice. He’s a monster in center, and he might bring us some of the attention the baseball team gets. Speaking of which . . .” Brandon nods behind me and I turn around just in time to see a very angry-looking Lincoln walking toward me.
Uh-oh.
Doesn’t seem like Jasmine sold herself well.
“Indie, a word,” he says in a clipped tone.
And because I’m stubborn—like Scarlett pointed out—I say, “Don’t be rude, Lincoln. I’m talking with Brandon.”
Reading the room—or the friendship—Brandon clears his throat and says, “Uh, I actually should take a piss. I’ve been holding it for a bit. I’ll catch you later, Indie.”
“Okay, sure. Bye, Brandon.”
Not even before he’s out of earshot, Lincoln spins me around to face him and says, “What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing.” I’ve never seen Lincoln this angry before.
“Bullshit, Indie. When did we start lying to each other?”
“I’m not lying, I’m just . . . trying to make sure we have fun.”
“I don’t know about you, but I came here to have fun with you. No one else.”