“And I’m busy. Unless you want to get in the goal?” I say sweetly as I start juggling the closest ball, intentionally showing off because I’m good at it andfuck himfor making me feel the way I do right now.
“I know you’re still mad at me.”
Yep.
“Of course not. Why would I be mad?”
He swallows hard and scrubs his hands over his face again, his glasses nowhere in sight. He looks good either way, but if I have to choose, I’m team glasses all day, even if he says it sucks when it’s raining or the steam from the pasta water fogs them up.
“Kins,” he says, his arms falling to his side. “Listen, I?—”
“Why don’t you think about it—you know,reallythink about what you want to say—and we can talk after?”
Blowing out a breath, he stares off into the distance. He doesn’t fight me on it before moving sullenly in front of the goal, no doubt realizing he’s walking into an ambush.
And he is.
Because I plan to annihilate him.
I position the first ball without asking if he’s ready and send it flying toward him. He ducks, letting it sail past his head andinto the net. Eyes widening, he looks at the ball before turning back toward me.
“You have to put your hands up,” I call, and when he doesn’t respond, I kick the next one.
And then two more.
Each aimed at him as he ducks and swears.
It’s cathartic.
Mostly.
Every ball is a comment, ugly and untrue, smashed with one kick across the field.
“Okay!” he yells when I line up another half dozen balls, his hands up in surrender as he jogs over to me, sweaty and still adorable. “Jesus, Kins. I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up but I’m human, Kins. I’m human and I just… I don’t know what we’re doing here because I look at you and then I look at me and sometimes I get it and sometimes it makes no sense.” He’s rambling, the words coming out in a rush, frustration and regret clear in his tone.
It’s just not enough.
“I’m human too and you really fucking hurt me.” He blanches like he forgot I’m not made of stone and that makes it worse. “It’s so easy for you to forget the person I am out there,”—I motion in the general direction of the parking lot—“isnotthe person I am with you. So, you telling me that I’m out of your league, that you’re not good enough for me, isn’t the compliment you think it is. It’s not praise. I put up the facade to protect myself because I’ve been burned too many times and I’ve seen too many things to let it go. But I’ve never been anything but myself with you, and you’re still telling me that I’m not real enough.”
“Kinsley.”
“No, this is important, Royce. Would you be proud to say I’m yours? Or would I be a trophy like I am in ninety percent of those photos that got your panties in a twist.”
“Of course I’d be proud. That’s not even a question?—”
“Imagine being with someone who thinks you’re too much—too loud, too flashy—but the person you are inside isn’t enough.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again, and I take a step back. I said too much and it’s too raw.
“Don’t leave. I…dammit, I screwed up.”
I shake my head. “Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow but—” I swallow hard and force the mask into place. “I won’t do this with you tonight.”
“Please don’t leave.”
“Know what the worst part is?”
“Baby,” he whispers, the word sounding pained as it leaves his lips.
