Not going to lose another second thinking about him.
A few minutes later, I’m clearing a table when I hear an “oops” just before a plate crashes on the floor. When I look up, the angry jocks from the locker room—all wearing the same red and white jacket with the team logo of a wolf—are sitting with a few girls. TJ is surprisingly not among them. They are sneering, sending me glaring looks. One mouths the word “fag” at me.
Charming.
Poorly concealed insults it is, then.
I turn to their table and give them a coy smile. “You keep dropping stuff on the floor.Uhm. Aren’t you supposed to hold on…to the ball? That’s ominous.”
The guy stands up, looking all hostile; the sound of his chair scraping the floor is quite annoying. “What the fuck did you say to me?”
“It’s bad luck,” I slowly explain while standing my ground. The air has turned electric, filled with tension and imminent frenzy. My hand goes to the tray I left on the table behind me. There’sfive of them and only one of me, but I can still do some damage. I like my odds.
“Yo! We have class in ten minutes.” Out of the corner of my eye I see TJ and three other guys near the door calling their dickish teammates.
The jocks all begrudgingly move away from the table and file toward the door. One of them bumps my shoulder while another stops a foot from me. “We’ll see you aga—” He tries to finish his bombastic little threat, but I jerk back.
“Dude, a mint before you start a conversation,” I exclaim out loud. A couple of girls giggle, sending me curious glances. Never got a stiffy for a woman. My type is usually silent and packing.
The guy glowers but, being the last one left, doesn’t try anything before stomping outside. I shake my head at his lack of braincells.
I walk over to check the mess they left on the floor more closely. Feeling the ache flare inside my knee for a moment, I lean down to massage away the pain.
“Why are you limping?” TJ’s sonorous voice makes me jolt with surprise.
“Fuck!” I spin, finding only two feet between us. The air is suddenly filled with the smell of spice and cinnamon. My body turns tense remembering how strong he shoved me.
“Are you hurt?” He is sporting that frown again on his face.
What’s with the sudden interest in my well-being?“No.”
“Did I do it? In-in the shower?” He lowers his voice on the last part.
I sniff at his remorseful tone. “You should go back to your witty teammates. I have a floor to clean.” I dip each word in contentious sarcasm. I don’t wait for his retort, though. I head to the back to get a mop and whatever else I need to clean while trying hard to forget a pair of annoyingly worried brown eyes.
TJ
I ache everywhere thanks to the most excruciating football practice in history. Coach Morgan worked us hard and kept me on the field for extra training afterward since my head hadn’t been in the game.
It’s the holidays. I hate this time of the year. And what I know will come during winter break. The thought of going back home to endless dinners and boring meetings creates a dreadful sensation in the pit of my stomach. My father likes to parade me around like a peacock in front of his friendsand colleagues while my mother pretends everything is swell. It makes me nauseated.
Maybe I should stay on campus. I snort at my idiotic thought. My father will never let me do that.
I place my palm on my hurting abs as memories of Spencer falling on top of me fill my head. He’s tall and slim, but I definitely felt lean, warm muscles under those loose clothes. Under my fingers. I can’t stop thinking about it, howmybody reacted to him. To all that hard weight covering mine.
He went from grumpy to playful in a matter of seconds. His quick comebacks left me speechless. At the café today, I saw his kindness as he helped an old lady out of a chair and paid for a coffee for a student who forgot his wallet. Then he handed me the straw, after the way I treated him. I didn’t want to do it. I was just trying to avoid a mess with my teammates. But he doesn’t know that.
I could clearly see the disdain in his hazel, almost yellow orbs this morning. It didn’t stop me from studying the little freckles peppering his nose and part of his cheeks, the wavy dark red hair curling on his nape, and the low-waist jeans hanging dangerously on his narrow hips.
He has a peculiar way of talking too. He is clearly from Chicago or nearby—his accent is unmistakable—-but he uses fancy words I sometimes don’t know the meaning of.
The eye tattoo on the back of his hand is pretty dope. Makes me wonder if he has any others.
I need to stop this. He clearly hates me.
I look around the quad. There’s no one out at this time of the evening. It’s lightly snowing, but I don’t feel the cold after the training I had. My jacket is open at the front, hair damp from the shower, and my gloves are inside my backpack with my lucky gray cap.
I keep walking for a few minutes. I have my jeep, but I prefer to move on foot when I can; it helps me clear my mind. The café where Spencer works is closed, the yellowFiona’ssign off. But I hear voices coming from the alley on the side.
