He takes a big bite. It makes me look at the full, perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips. I drag my eyes away, concentrating on the TV.
“What is that crap anyway?” I scoff.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Traitors. You’ve never heard of it?Everyoneis watching it.”
“Reality TV?”
I don’t mean to sound so superior. It just comes out like that. I’m too used to sparring with Alex. Insulting each other instead of having proper conversations. But now he doesn’t answer back, just looks at me with his big, unmade-up eyes, and I feel bad. I really didn’t come to gloat. I actually came here to cheer him up, not to snipe at him. But it’s tough to remember. Do I even know how to be nice to him? We’ve fallen into a pattern of being rivals—enemies, actually—on the tennis court. I didn’t expect Malachi to start picking him for the team so soon after he started playing. Didn’t expect him to be such a natural. If I’m honest, part of me is jealous. Sport is supposed to be my thing. I play hard against him, but he can take it. He throws it back, too, with interest. Maybe because he loves tennis and maybe a little bit because of what I did to him at school. I didn’t know what to do except throw that aggression right back. Both on the court and when we fuck.
But I guess I can try a change, now. I’ve come this far. Nerves prickle up my spine, along with something else. Hope. It starts somewhere deep within me as I look at Alex’s face. He’s making it so obvious that he’s ready to bury the hatchet if I want to. I’m at a crossroads. I can either make some snarky comment and he’ll have to protect himself, offering me hostility in return. Or I can do the really brave thing and show him that I’m ready to lay down my weapons too.
“I guess I can giveTraitorsa chance,” I say.
The smile that spreads across Alex’s face is worth the moment of fear before I jumped. His eyes light up and he keeps eye contact. I feel something crack between us, like the first crack in an icesheet that marks the beginning of the end of an ice age. Ormaybe that’s too overdramatic. Maybe being in thespian boy’s house is infecting me.
We focus on eating and watching quietly for a while. I try to give the show a chance, I really do, but it’s not my thing. The coffins are fucking creepy. Who signed off on that idea? I don’t say anything to Alex because I would never admit to him that it freaks me out a little. I’m learning the benefits of biting my tongue, especially as he scoots a little closer on the sofa, all companionable. Any closer and I could lay my arm ever so casually over the back of the sofa like in a romantic movie and let him snuggle into me. Is that what he’s angling for? My muscles almost make the move before I can stop them. What’s wrong with me?
Chapter 6
Dane
“So how’s your ankle?” I ask, edging away.
“I’ll survive. It would’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t broken my fall.”
“It was just an instinct.”
“Good instincts.”
What’s that look in his eyes. Trust? Weird. It draws me in. But it also scares me.
I retreat into facts. “So… how much money did we end up raising for the club? That was kinda overshadowed when you fell on your face.”
I’m learning to make my voice a little softer when I tease him. It works. He makes a joke-sad face at the reminder of his public downfall, but he isn’t annoyed. He checks his phone, checking the club WhatsApp group.
“£623,” he says.
“Pretty good.”
“I suppose so.”
He doesn’t sound that impressed. Looking around his place, I guess that’s a lot less money to him than it is to me. We fall silent again, awkwardness renewing. This is weird. Iwantto make conversation, work on our new non-toxic rapport, but I can’t think of anything to say. It’s like when I can’t act all competitive with him, I don’t know how to communicate at all. Then his phone buzzes with an alarm. He grimaces.
“Time for the ice pack,” he says. “Again. I have to do this every couple of hours. I’m fucking sick of it.”
“I know that. I’m studying physiotherapy, remember.”
He looks at me. “I know. I didn’t mean anything bad.”
I’m being defensive again.
“Let me help,” I suggest.
He seems surprised at how eager I sound. “Okay. In the freezer. Thanks.”
I grab an ice pack from the freezer and gently wrap it around his ankle. He props his ankle up on a couple of cushions, leans his head back, and closes his eyes, trusting me not to hurt him.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he murmurs. Then he opens his eyes and looks at me shyly. “Do you want to watch something else?” he says.
