Me:Guys, for real—who the hell IS Joe?
The Wall (Derek):I’d ask, but Coach is currently replaying Lars the Lumberjack’s walk in slow motion. Says the dude has excellent center of gravity and would make a great defender. Then he went back to ranting about slow, painful deaths.
Turbo (Tayler):?????? Welcome to hell, Becker! See you on TV!
Me:ANSWER ME.
51
Racing Hearts and Red-Lipstick Revenge
Sloane
The bus ride up to Elm Hollow Mountain lasts twenty minutes, but to me it feels like twenty years in purgatory.
I’m sitting next to Cohen. Our thighs are glued together, pressed tight every time the bus takes a curve, and the heat coming off his body should honestly be illegal in a civilized society.
But my mind is still down in the town square.
Stuck on that bleach-white smile.
On that hand gripping Sarah’s waist with performative possessiveness.
On that greasy little wink.
Joe.
I didn’t think seeing him would hit me like this.
I thought I was over it—filed away neatly underPoor Romantic Choices and Traumas to Be Drowned in Wine.
And yet, seeing him there, so smug, so… happy, made me feel small.
And angry.
Furious.
“Hey.”
Cohen’s voice slices through my spiral of hatred.
He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the seat in front of us, but his hand has somehow found mine under my scarf, his fingers absently playing with my own. A light, distracted touch—butgrounding. And sending entirely different sensations spiraling through me.
“If you clench your jaw any harder, you’re going to crack a molar,” he murmurs.
I relax instantly, exhaling sharply.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. And I’m still captain of Lakewood.”
He finally turns toward me. His hazel eyes are serious, probing. None of the usual sarcasm.
“Who is he, Sloane?”
The question is direct. Blunt.
Cohen isn’t stupid.
