She rolls her eyes. “My name is Quinn.”
He passes the pitcher to Vaughn and gives her an approving thumbs up. “Looking good, Quinn. I’m digging that costume.” His grin widens, and he gestures to the batons strapped to her back. “If Coop steps out of line, do you get to spank him?”
She arches a brow, returning his smile. “I haven’t tried that yet, but who knows? The night is young. Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you borrow one and you can give it a go yourself.”
Parker guffaws and turns to Vaughn, who’s filling the cups. “I knew I liked this girl.”
“Simmer down.” I toss Parker a ball. “If anyone’s getting spanked tonight, it’s you.” I squint and cock my head, pretending to think. “What’s it been, like, six months since you and Vaughn won a game of beer pong?”
“Seven,” Vaughn corrects, continuing to pour.
“The man makes a good point.” Parker rubs his jaw. “We should mix it up. Can’t have the Avengers teaming up on us. I’ll take Black Widow. You can have Thor and his mighty hammer.”
I give him the finger, but I don’t have time to argue because Quinn shakes her head and steps between us.
“No way. If we’re splitting teams, I get Vaughn.” She gestures between Parker and I. “You two egomaniacs can take all your drama to the other end of the table.”
“Works for me.” Vaughn snickers, setting the pitcher aside as Quinn saunters toward him, her backside swaying with every step. “Birds of a feather and all that.”
The fuck?
In the three years I’ve known Vaughn, not once has it occurred to me he might be capable of stealing my date.
No, not my date. My teammate.
Whatever. It’s basically the same thing.
Which isn’t even the point.
Look at the guy. He’s about as smooth as oatmeal.
I shudder. I fucking hate oatmeal. It’s boring—just like Vaughn.
And yet, Quinn chose him over me.
It’s a fucking travesty.
One I’m never going to live down if Parker has anything to say about it.
My humiliation is compounded when Quinn and Vaughn both sink their first shots, forcing us to drink and getting the balls back.
They’ve knocked out three cups before Parker and I even get a chance to shoot.
“Damn.” Parker fishes a plastic ball out of a cup in the back row. “Quinn’s got skills.”
The irony isn’t lost on me since I’m the one who helped her improve her form.
Was that only a few weeks ago? It feels like a lifetime.
Fall semester is always rough, but with my father’s election looming and the pressure to put up big numbers heading into the draft, this semester has been especially brutal.
The only positive is that a busy schedule makes it easy to dodge my father’s calls. He left me a message this morning, but I haven’t listened to it yet. The last thing I need is him yapping in my ear on game day.
“Bottom’s up,” Parker says, handing me a cup.
I drain it in a single gulp, and when it’s my turn, I sink my shot, forcing Vaughn to drink.
Parker misses on his turn. So does Quinn.
