Clark treads his way toward the locker room, stopping to stuff his garbage bag into the trash and walking past Hendrix without giving him a second look.
As close as Margo and Hendrix seemed to be a little bit ago, I’m surprised that he didn’t follow her outside to fuck her in some random room or supply closet—since that seems to be his thing. But instead, he walks up the stairs and stops, leaning against the railing like he’s taunting me or something.
I hate that he caught me watching, but I hate even more that after I took in the sight of him grazing her hair with his fingertips, my palms were almost bleeding from my fists clenching so tight that my nails cut my flesh.
I have no interest in Hendrix Hunt. He’s an asshole and a complete psychopath. And yet, there I stood, staring at them and hoping they didn’t kiss.
As I walk toward the middle staircase, I debate continuing to the next one just to avoid him, but something tells me he’d only follow me anyway. He seems to get off on fucking with me, and as much as I hate it, I’m ashamed to admit that a small part of me enjoys it too.
So, instead of avoiding him, I decide I’ll just dart past him. But in true Hendrix fashion, he steps into the top of the aisle, smirking down at me.
“Even looking like you crawled out of bed, wearing those disgusting rubber gloves, you’re still so pretty, Nineteen,” he coos. “Tell me, did that fire that had you going crazy last night burn out?”
“Get out of my way, Hunt,” I murmur, peeling my gloves off one by one and shoving them into the garbage bag in my hand. “I’d hate to do this again tomorrow, but if you don’t move, I’ll have to knee you in the ballbag.”
Everything about him screams confidence. But unlike some athletes, his doesn’t have a limit. No, he’s as cocky as they come. Of course, I’m sure his talent and the way he looks don’t help that.
“Go get Margo, would you?” I hiss the words out before I have time to stop and think about how much he’s going to love that I said them. I just proved to him—and myself—that maybe a piece of me was jealous when I looked up and saw him that close to her. So, I make sure to add more. “I don’t have time for this today. I need to be in the workout room in ten minutes.”
“I don’t know what makes my cock twitch more, Nineteen,” he returns, raking his eyes over me. “Seeing you really fucking mad or knowing that you get jealous when you see me with other girls.”
“I do not,” I whisper angrily. “Why would I give two shits who you talk to, Hunt?”
He leans closer, his eyes taunting me. And even after being here since the ass crack of dawn, cleaning up the floors and peeling gum from seats, he smells good enough to literally eat. “Oh, I think you do, babe.”
My mouth opens, and my nostrils flare. But mostly, my cheeks heat because … he’s right. Luckily, before I have to come up with a response, Coach Talmage’s deep voice cuts through the arena.
“Hunt,” he growls. “We have shit to get through this morning, and I don’t need you acting like an ass, fucking it up.” He stops. “Locker room. Now.”
Hendrix seems completely unfazed and simply deepens his smirk, winking at me. “I’ll be seeing you, Nineteen.”
The words don’t come out as a suggestion but instead a promise before he slowly turns and heads toward the men’s locker room with the coach hot on his tail.
And as I scurry the opposite way, I tell the fire inside of me to go out.
Because Hendrix Hunt is not the man who should be setting anyone’s soul ablaze. Especially not mine.
NINE
HENDRIX
I’ve acceptedthe fact that my home will never be quiet. I mean, I live in The Tower, which is a huge-ass manor that houses some of NEU’s best athletes. But one person I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with—because he’s a freshman and thankfully can’t live here per NEU’s rules—is Clark fucking Leeman. It’s one thing to be on the motherfucker’s team and see him at practice, but it’s another to come home and see that my roommate, Jameson, has invited him over.
“The fuck is he doing here, West?” I grumble at Jameson as I walk into the living room, where the two of them are playing a video game.
“Oh, cut it out,” Jameson drawls. “Y’all are going to kiss and make up. Clarky knows he fucked up. Don’t you, bud?”
When Leeman doesn’t answer, my eyes narrow, and instinctively, I walk in front of the television and unplug the game they are so fucking engrossed in, and instantly, they both throw their hands up.
“Dude, what the fuck?!” Jameson yells before pouting. “We were right in the middle of a game, you fuckstick.”
“Is what West said true?” I jerk my chin upward at Clark. “Do you actually know you fucked up, or are you too fucking stupid to realize it?”
Tossing his controller onto the coffee table lightly, he sighs. “I get it, dude. I have a younger sister. I shouldn’t have said shit about Isla—or any other girl.” He shrugs. “I was trying to be funny.”
“It wasn’t funny, douchebag,” I toss back. “Why the fuck were you talking to her yesterday in the arena? Did you tell her what you said?”
“What?” He frowns. “No. Dude, her dad is Cam Hardy. He could end my career before it even begins.”
