I look to the side, trying to come up with something, anything to get the subject off me. “When was the last time you had sex?”
“What?” he asks, leaning back as if I slapped him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sex, Lincoln. It’s when you stick your dick—”
“I know what sex is,” he says, taking a step forward, so I take a step back, running up against the wall next to the kitchen. Crap. Nowhere else to go. “Why are you asking me that?”
“It’s a simple question, Lincoln. Why won’t you answer it?”
“It’s not that I’m avoiding the question, Indie, but I’m just wondering where this is coming from.”
“You know, if you can’t answer it then there is no point—”
“Since before I met you,” he says, his hand falling against the wall, right above my head, his other hand gripping my waist, pinning me in place. “I haven’t had sex since the summer. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I . . . I . . .” His intense brown eyes bore down on me, his eyebrows sharp and menacing. I can taste his irritation on the tip of my tongue with how close he is, and I’m conscious that Scarlett was right. This was a mistake.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he asks, his voice coming out hoarse.
“I don’t remember,” I answer honestly.
“Okay, so now that that’s out of the way, where the fuck is this coming from?”
When I look away, he grips my chin and forces me to look at him. Letting out a short breath that seems to keep stopping in my throat, I say, “Jasmine’s a nice girl.”
“Jesus fuck,” he shouts, pushing off the wall and turning away from me. The people around us all stop and watch Lincoln as he pierces both hands through his hair, while I stand there nervously, trying to figure out how to stop these unfamiliar feelings from pumping through my veins, making me want to throw up and flee.
The tension in his shoulders is palpable. His anger straining all the way to the tips of his fingers that are digging into his hair.
No matter what, this conversation is not going to end well, so instead of pushing it any further, I decide to end it and walk away.
The only exit is past him, so I take a deep breath and maneuver around him quickly. I make it through but his voice booms through the loft, calling out to me. I don’t stop. I keep going all the way to the stairs that lead to the first floor, taking them two at a time and just as I reach the street, I hear the pounding of Lincoln’s feet behind me.
My place isn’t that far away, a few blocks, so I walk it, thankful that I’m wearing cute blue Keds rather than heels like every other girl in the loft.
“Indie, stop,” he calls out.
I don’t. I keep walking, picking up my pace, but it’s no match for Lincoln’s long stride. Before I know it, he’s standing in front of me, looking distraught and irritated.
“Fucking stop,” he says, catching his breath.
“Lincoln, please let me by.”
“Not until you talk to me. Jesus, Indie, what the fuck happened in between hugging me in the stands and the party? Does it have to do with going out to dinner with your mom?”
“Nothing happened,” I shout, so sick of being asked twenty questions. “Nothing happened.”
“Then why the fuck are you trying to hook me up with your teammate?”
“Because—”
“Because why?” he shouts.
Anger and fear come together at a crossroads in my brain. Fear of admitting that I want Lincoln—more than just as a friend—and anger that my mom pushed me to this point. Everything was fine between us. Everything was comfortable. Now, because of my stupid head, things are muddled . . . and they don’t feel right.
“Because don’t you want to fuck someone? Don’t you want to stop babysitting me and maybe . . . I don’t know, go back to having sex?”
“What in the actual fuck,” he says, gripping his hair. “Why do you care so much about my damn sex life?”
“You were a sexual person before I came along. I don’t want to be cramping your style.”
“You’re serious?” he asks, a crinkle in his brow.
“Yes,” I answer, even though I honestly have no idea what I’m saying.
“Unbelievable,” he says with annoyance and then pushes past me, his shoulder bumping into mine. But he doesn’t make it but three steps before he’s turning around, his voice rising. “Did it ever occur to you that I like the way things are? That I don’t need some random pussy to make me happy? That my life is actually pretty chill exactly as it is?”
Yes?
No?
I want to believe him. And before seeing my mom today, I probably would have. But she’s right. I knew who Lincoln Castle was before I met him. He wasn’t a manwhore, chasing a different girl every night. But look at him! Women want him. He’s not oblivious to that. And due to the amount of time he’s spent with me, he hasn’t had much time to hook up. God, he’s even suggested that I make it hard for him, and surely, like any other red-blooded male, he’s needed to deal with that. Wouldn’t he resent me for that? Won’t he tire of spending time with me soon anyway? And then what? And then he’ll go back to how it was for him.
“I was just—”
“Just what, Indie? Letting your mom get in your head? What did she tell you? Did she express my mom’s concerns, is that what she told you?” I open my mouth to answer him, but what do I say? He nods slowly, his neck straining with anger. “I see. So your mom tells you that my mom was concerned about you leading me on, right?”
“I’m not,” I say, wanting to state that for the record.
“Yeah, I’m reading that loud and clear, Indie. You’re not leading me on. You’re fucking pushing me away.” He shakes his head and says, “I’ll see you around.”
“Wait, Lincoln, let’s talk about this,” I say out of desperation, realizing how fucked up my head is and how I should have just stayed home rather than prove a stupid point.
“Nah, I’m good. Maybe I’ll go look for some pussy like you desperately want me to.”
Hands shoved into his pockets, he walks away, and all I can think as I take in his retreating back is how astronomically stupid I am.
The worst thing about having your friend in a class with you . . . is facing them when you’re fighting.
Normally, my Sunday after a home game has been spent lounging all day in Lincoln’s bed, taking naps, eating takeout, watching movies, and playing games. It’s become a ritual. And then we wake up early the next morning and train.
Well, there was no Sunday ritual. I spent all Sunday in my own bed, crying on and off and ignoring every text from Scarlett after I didn’t let her into my room.
For our Monday training session this morning, I showed up and waited outside the stadium, hoping he’d come, but he didn’t.
He was a no-show, and that hurt more than anything because I know how dedicated he is to obtaining his goal. He must really hate me.
Which leads me to class. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that he doesn’t show up and I’m leaning more toward he’s going to be a no-show. So when I see him come through the classroom door, I’m surprised.