Chapter 4
Alex
It’s two days after Dane screwed me over in the tennis match. I haven’t spoken to him since. That’s not unusual. We can go for days without speaking if we don’t have a match or a hookup. But this time it feels different. He must know I’m sulking. Iput icy energy into my text messages, enough for him to feel it through the phone. I wonder if he feels guilty, or if he even has that in him. I wonder if he believed my lie about the “plans” that clash with the exhibition match. I made it up because I couldn’t stand it when he got all guilty and pitying, acting like he’d give up the exhibition match to poor little me. If he wants it that badly, he can have it. I don’t need it. It’s for the best, anyway. Forgetting the exhibition match gives me more time to practice for my band’s Christmas gig at the local pub. It’s going to be our biggest show yet and I owe it to the rest of the band to focus.
But I’ll have to see Dane today, whether I want to or not. The tennis club is running a fundraiser at the local shopping center, when there’s a large captive Christmas audience to guilt. We’re hoping to raise some money for club facilities and maybe attract some new members too. The plan is to keep a single treadmill race going for twelve hours straight, with different members of the club switching in and out. And obviously we have to make eejits of ourselves in Santa and elf outfits, because… that’s how these things work. People pay for public humiliation.
I step into the overheated interior of the mall and wince. It’s hotter than a polar bear’s armpit in here, and we haven’t even started running yet. I’m not looking forward to this. Tennis is the only sport I actually like. I reserve an intense hatred for jogging of any kind. But there’s one big motivation: I’m determined to beat Dane’s time. I head for the small crowd gathered at the center of the atrium, waving at Malachi and a few familiar faces from the club. The fundraiser has already started. Áine is in the hot seat right now, setting a steady pace on the treadmill, her face almost as red as her Santa hat. A few curious, interested shoppers have gathered around already.Last Christmasrings out from a store. I shove through crowds of excited kids and their tired-looking parents who are waiting in line at Santa’s Grotto. Suddenly, someone grabs my arm. I spin, startled, butit’s only Dane, dressed in a Santa outfit, looking surreal and hot at the same time.
“Hey,” he says, all smooth.
He has the audacity to give me a “charming” grin. He glances around to check no one is watching, then drags me into a deserted alcove off the main atrium. He looms over me, his eyes getting all dreamy, his lips getting way too close.
“Are you trying to kiss me?” I say, icier than the fake decorative icicles hanging from the roof.
He jumps back, rubbing the back of his neck like an idiot.
“Is that… not okay?” he says.
“No, it is not okay. Since when do we kiss? Especially after what you did to me?”
I’m halfway between rage and sheer bemusement. We don’t kiss. I mean, not outside of our fuck sessions and even then it’s more like a duel than a kiss. We just try to destroy each other at tennis and then work out our annoyance on each other’s bodies. We don’t kiss like acouple.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” Dane says. “I offered to confess. You told me not to.” He shrugs, likewhat else do you want from me?
“That still doesn’t change the fact you cheated in the first place.”
His eyes are much too focused on my face, like he’s trying to solve a math problem. He’s too close. Why won’t he step back? Even though I’m mad at him, my body is reacting to his closeness—some kind of irritating Pavlovian response. My body expects pleasure. That’s what usually happens when Dane gets this close and looks at me like that.
Not this time.
“You really don’t want to kiss?” he says.
“Really,” I say, crossing my arms.
The hope dies out of his eyes. They get narrow and angry, and the icy blue Daniel-Craig-about-to-kill-someone look comesback with a vengeance. He finally steps back, and now I can breathe.
“Suit yourself,” he says.
He stalks back to the atrium without another word. I watch him go, torn between rage and disappointment. After a while I follow him a distance, just in case anyone sees us together. The coach, Malachi, greets me and gives me a choice of outfit for the treadmill: Santa or elf. It’s enough to temporarily shock me out of thinking about Dane. The costumes were apparently bought by the club secretary from some dubious online store. Neither of the choices is the height of class, but the elf one is marginally less embarrassing. It has a kitschy kind of charm. The Santa outfit just looks frumpy, or at least it would look frumpy on me. Dane’s more muscular frame can pull it off somehow.
I head to the loos to change. I don’t feel like wriggling into these red “velvet” elf hot pants in front of a crowd. The little hat isn’t too bad, at least. I adjust it to a jaunty angle while looking in the mirror. It sets off my eyeliner well. Goth elf. I quite like it.
The bathroom door opens, and Dane stands there, holding a Refresher bar. He has a taste for that kind of hyperactive-making candy. Suits his mental age. He looks me up and down, gaze resting on the hot pants hugging my ass tight and the little elf hat on my head. His eyes flash with some emotion I can’t place. Probably contempt. He probably thinks I’m showing off and being far too campy, drawing too much attention to my gay ass.
“Didn’t I just tell you to piss off?” I grumble.
“Not in so many words.”
He comes toward me, slow and lazy. He stuffs the Refresher bar in his mouth way more suggestively than necessary, holding my gaze.
“If you tell me to piss off, I’ll go,” he says.
“Eating in the bathroom? Really?” I say.
He keeps advancing on me. There’s nowhere for me to go but into a stall. He follows and crushes himself into the tiny cubicle with me, reaching behind him with one hand to close and lock the door. He’s standing so close I have to tilt my neck back to look him in the eye.
“Well?” he says.
