That little shithead.
My eyes bore into Keene’s back as he walks away from me and into the university’s practice facility.
He’s always known how to push my buttons better than anyone else. Probably because I gave him the damn nuclear codes years ago. Hard not to when we’ve known each other since birth.
I’m still staring long after he’s passed through the doors leading to the team’s weight room, indoor cages, and all that shit. Not for any reason in particular, other than I’d prefer to wait long enough that Bristol isn’t at the dorm when I get back.
It sounds shitty, I know. But her habit of staying over has become more than a little cumbersome as of late, and not just because she hogs a lot of room for such a small human.
The girl’s a great time; that’s not the issue. We get along easily enough, and the sex since we started this friends-with-benefits arrangement our freshman year has been top-notch. And most importantly, we’re on the same page about keeping things casual between us. Keene doesn’t quite understand it—the monogamist he is—but at least he keeps it to himself.
He might like the whole cute, cuddly thing that you get from relationships, but it’s not my jam. I prefer the zero-attachment style of hookup. The kind where we fuck, she leaves, and I get to crash alone. In fact, sharing a bed with someone is probably in the top five of my least favorite things on Earth.
I just don’t like the intimacy of it all. The closeness that comes with waking up next to someone after screwing the daylights out of them for a good forty-five minutes the night before.
Plus, the amount of awkwardness—and subsequently, guilt—I feel whenever she stays over weighs on me. Awkward, because I never know how to say something like, okay, you can leave now, without sounding like a complete tool. And guilty for not only wanting her to leave, but also because I know Keene has to hear everything through the paper-thin wall we share. Brist isn’t exactly discrete in bed.
A loud honk behind me sends my pulse into hyperdrive, and a quick glance in the mirror reveals a car trying to pull into the spot I’m blocking with my Impala.
Dad’s Impala.
But the car is a Mercedes G-Class, and in the driver’s seat is none other than Avery Reynolds. Also known as one of the starting pitchers for the Wildcats and the biggest douchebag I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
How Keene deals with him on a day-to-day basis, especially working so close with him as a catcher, is beyond me. And don’t even get me started on the way he talks down to Keene, even in the middle of the game. I have a hard enough time not cussing him out every time he calls Keene out to the mound for one of their little huddles, knowing damn well he’s giving Keene a hard time when it’s his pitches that aren’t hitting the target Keene sets.
I’d deck him the first chance I got if he started popping off at me. Then again, this is why I don’t play team sports and keep to running instead. My preference lies with things that don’t require me to talk to other people, unless it’s jumping into a squad while I’m gaming.
But I digress.
Avery honks again before urging me to move forward and out of his way by revving the engine.
Like I said, douchebag.
Oh, and look. Getting out of the passenger side is his right-hand asshole, Reese. Also known as the best first baseman in the conference, as if it’s any sort of accomplishment.
I’m kind of sick of all these guys thinking they’re hot shit just because they’re playing college ball. It’s not like they’re over in Nashville playing for Vanderbilt. Baseball at Vandy might as well be compared to playing football for Alabama; where the best of the best want to be.
Where Keene could’ve gone, if I was less of a selfish dick. Or a fucking coward, too chicken shit to uproot out of my comfort zone permanently.
Keene’s mom even tried to talk him out of staying, to truly follow his heart when choosing where he wanted to land. That he and I would still be best friends, even if we were no longer attached at the hip like we’ve been our entire lives. All very valid points.
But like he could sense the fear radiating from me while we all sat around the Waters’ dinner table at one of our weekly dinners, he said the Wildcats made the most sense for him.
I try to ease the guilt I feel for that by telling myself Keene made the choice to stay here, though deep down, I know that the only reason he did so was for me. And if I would’ve given Vandy a chance—because, yeah, I applied and got in—he’d be working with some of the best coaches to garner his shot at the MLB.
And we wouldn’t have to deal with jack knobs like Avery if we were at Vandy.
Knowing what I do now, that would’ve been my selling point to drop everything and head to Music City. Hindsight, and all that.
Speaking of the devil, Avery’s now outside my driver’s side window, rapping on the glass with his knuckles and one pissed-off expression.
I sigh and roll the window down halfway. Enough for him to talk, but not enough for him to do something stupid, like get close enough for me to sock him in the mouth if he makes some com—
“If you’re planning to wait all day for your boyfriend, I’d suggest moving this hunk of junk into an actual parking spot. You’re making us late for practice.”
The boyfriend comments from Avery are new, just starting near the end of last semester, but it’s gotten old real quick. Just another way for him to be a piece of shit and bully people who aren’t intimidated by him or all the money his daddy threw at school as a “donation” for a new stadium.
A generous one, and the only reason Avery’s even on the team in the first place.
My brow arches and I look around at the practically empty lot we’re in. “Ah, yes. How could I forget the world revolves around you? Heaven forbid you be inconvenienced.”
The sarcasm in my tone is potent, completely obvious to even this Neanderthal, and it shows when his glare turns into a sneer.
“It’s not hard to move the car, Kohl. So, do it.”
I give him a thoughtful look and nod. “You’re right. It’s not hard at all. So why don’t you get back in yours, put it in drive, and go around me.”
His stunned expression is priceless as I pull out my pack of Marlboros, stick one between my lips, and light it.
I picked up the habit last year when I was outside my architecture studio late one night with another classmate, taking a break from working on my midterm project. He offered me one, and though I’d never had the urge to smoke, I did it. And just like that, I was hooked. Not to the cancer stick itself, but the feeling that came when I inhaled.
I felt lighter. Calmer. Less stressed. More in control.
Keene hates it. Even told me he’d throw the pack away anytime he caught it lying around, and I don’t blame him for it. I wouldn’t want to watch him suck all the toxic shit into his body either. But I don’t make a habit to smoke often—only when I really need to cool my shit—and next to never when he’s around.
Avery’s lip curls up in clear disgust when I flick ash out the window in his direction.
Good. Let him think what he wants of me. I don’t give two shits about his opinion, or Reese’s, or any of the other douche canoes on Keene’s team.
I exhale slowly, letting the smoke blow out at him. “Didn’t you say you were gonna be late?”
His jaw ticks, and he waves his hand angrily to fan the smoke away. “Why’re you such a dick?”
I snort. “Coming from you? Please.”
“Just move the fucking car.”
I raise a brow. “How about…no?”
The vein in his temple becomes more visible, and the part of me that hates this guy as much as I do is begging him to deck me. I’d take the shiner if he broke his damn hand in the process. I can tell he’s getting close to that point too. The way his face reddens says it all.
But instead of dragging me from the car and beating my ass, his fist slams down on the roof. My vision goes black. Or maybe it’s red, from all the blood of his I’m about to spill if he doesn’t back up in the next two seconds.
“Do that again. I fucking dare you.”
“Or what? What’s your punk ass gonna do about it? I’d rock your shit, Kohl.”
Again, I could give two shits if he kicked my ass. No doubt, with one or two of his cronies holding my arms back, because he’s not the type to fight fair. But the funny thing about having nothing to prove is you also have nothing to lose.
He has both.
“Then do it.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
I shrug. “Hit me. Fight me. I don’t care.”
The shock on his face makes me chuckle, but not nearly as much as watching him stammer and grapple for some sort of rebuttal. I give him a second, though, because no one ever accused this meathead of being smart.
Finally, after a minute, he settles on something. “Yeah, but then go home to have Waters nurse you back to health. Hell, I bet I’d be doing you a favor.” He pauses, then adds, “And I can’t risk an injury to my hand.”
The smirk that slides on my face is one of victory, and man, it tastes sweet. Only getting better when his glare takes on a mixture of anger and resentment for embarrassing him.
How dare I call him out like that?
“Your hand. Right,” I say, nodding. “Well, if that’s all, I’ve gotta get going. You mind?”
Oh, does his face turn into a damn tomato when I say that, but he turns and heads back to his car without another word. He’s getting what he wanted, after all. He just got his ego knocked down a few pegs beforehand. And his sense of entitlement checked.
Assholes like him need that every once in a while.
Of course, he’s not the only asshole here, so I roll my window down completely to lean out and call back to him, “Oh, hey, Reynolds!”
He’s got his hand on the door to his Mercedes when he looks back up at me.
“Next time you touch my car, I’ll hit you with it.”
Then I flip him the bird and punch the gas, speeding away with winter air and cigarette smoke filling my lungs.
