“Sure. You gonna go see your girl?” J grins at me.
I raise an eyebrow but smile like an idiot because these two days have taken way too long. “No?”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Mase slaps me on the back. “That’s why you’ve put on your nice clothes, looking all preppy college-y.”
He eyes my navy polo and khaki bermudas. A stark contrast with the loose tank and board shorts I was wearing an hour ago, like my brothers.
Busted, I guess.
“Ahw, look at him dolling himself up. He even has on his cleanest hat,” J teases as he tries to flick it off.
Being slightly smaller does have its advantages because I dodge easily and back away from them to the house, holding out my middle fingers to idiot number one and number two.
“Have fun, honey,” Mase yells after me. “Don’t forget to open the door for her and hold out her chair.”
“And remember to wrap it before you tap it!” J puts in his two cents.
Shaking my head at their stupidity, I grab my stuff from the house. Dad’s at the diner and my mom’s nowhere to be found, but I know that she doesn’t care that I take off. Which I do. Very happily.
A bit too happily.
TWENTY
I ace the thirty-minute drive in twenty, thanks to light traffic, and instead of heading to my own place, Jace's, or Yettie's, I park my trusty truck at the soccer fields.
Because if I’m right, he’s still playing.
The soccer fields are on the other side of campus. It's usually quiet here, with fewer buildings and more trees. But thisafternoon, the parking lot is almost full, and I can see that the big lights are on and the stands are packed.
Their little stadium isn't anywhere near the same vicinity as ours, but it's bigger than I thought. So I show my student ID at the entrance–the soccer games are free for students–buy myself a coke and try to find a spot close to the field to watch the last half of the game. I want to see Jace up close.
Once I'm finally settled after greeting what feels like half the student body–being the QB does have its downsides–I search for him on the field.
He said he doesn't play much, that he's usually benched, but when I find him chasing the ball, I grin like a kid in a candy store, thrilled to see that he's playing.
God, he’s mesmerizing.
And of course, he plays center. Always the center of attention.
And he’s a good center.
Very good.
He has his hair pulled back again with that stupid headband, but according to the two girls in front of me who are giggling and pointing every time he runs by, he pulls it off.
Yeah, they’re not the only ones checking him out; I can’t seem to stop either.
Somehow, the way his knee-length socks are not pulled up high enough so his muscular calves are on display is doing funny things to my gut.
Who knew I had a thing for calves?
So I watch, enraptured, how he darts over the field, muscles pumping, how he plays, how he scores, how his teammates barely congratulate him, and how he’s the first one to leave the field when they’ve won the game, letting his stupid teammates celebrate by themselves.
Fuckers.
Quickly, I push my way through the throng of people again to ensure I'm outside the locker rooms before he leaves, planning to surprise him.
Thankfully, the college security guys know me from my own games and let me through with a slap on my back, making me promise that I would at least make sure we score one touchdown next week because they have some bet going.
