milo
I'mnotstaring.I'maggressively observing. There's a difference.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I stretch my hamstrings on the frozen sideline, my eyes locked on the Alpha crossing the football field like she owns it. Which, technically, she kind of does. Coach's daughter privileges and all that.
Iris Delacroix moves through the February cold like it personally offended her and she's choosing to ignore its existence out of spite. Her long black braids swing with every step, adorned with teal and gold beads that click softly against each other. I can hear that sound even from fifty feet away, which either means I have supernatural hearing or my brain has tuned itself to her specific frequency. Probably the second one.Definitelythe second one. Her dark blue eyes are fixed on the clipboard tucked under her arm, her lips moving slightly as shedoes calculations in her head, working through numbers like other people breathe.
And she's wearing flip flops. In February. On frozen grass that crunches beneath everyone else's cleats.
She's not even shivering. How is she not shivering? Is she magic? She might be magic. I'm genuinely starting to believe she might be magic.
My scent does that embarrassing thing where it goes all sweet and honey-like, broadcasting my feelings to anyone with a functioning nose. Which, on a football team full of Alphas and Betas, is literally everyone within a thirty-foot radius. The guy stretching next to me, a linebacker whose name I can never remember, sniffs the air and shoots me a weird look.
I becomeveryinterested in my hamstrings. Fascinating things, hamstrings. So stretchy. Much flexibility.Wow. I press my forehead to my knee and pretend I'm deeply committed to this stretch and not at all dying of embarrassment while my own body betrays me.
Great. Now the whole team knows I'm pining. This is fine.Everything is fine.
When I risk another glance, Iris has paused near the water station. She's scribbling something on her clipboard, probably tracking equipment costs or player stats or whatever it is she does that makes her indispensable to the athletic department.
Her oversized cream sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing smooth deep brown skin, and I nearly pull a muscle trying not to visibly react. My hamstrings have never been stretched this thoroughly in my entire athletic career.
That's when I notice Chad and Kevin.
The Douche Canoe Duo, as I've privately nicknamed them, have positioned themselves directly in Iris' path. They're doing bicep curls with free weights they definitely grabbed just for this moment, flexing like their lives depend on it. The positioning istoo perfect to be accidental. They've clearly been waiting for her to walk by, probably tracked her usual route across the field like the absolute creeps they are.
Chad Mercer stands at 6'2" with sandy blond hair shellacked into place with enough product to waterproof a boat. He's wearing a tank top despite the freezing temperature because God forbid anyone miss his arms for even a single second. His face is permanently set to "smug," like someone told him he was handsome once in middle school and he's been riding that high ever since. He looks like a Ken doll that got left in the sun too long and developed a personality disorder.
Weird ass. Do people even like Alphas like that?
Kevin Holloway hovers at his shoulder like always, a solid two inches shorter with dark hair carefully arranged into what he probably thinks is an effortlessly tousled style. He's wearing a backwards cap even though practice just ended, and he keeps checking his reflection in his phone screen between curls.
If Chad jumped off a cliff, Kevin would ask which cliff and whether he should film it for the 'gram. The man has never had an original thought in his life; he just photocopies whatever Chad does and calls it a personality.
"Yo, watch this," Chad says, loud enough for me to hear from across the field. "She's coming."
He flexes so hard a vein pops out on his forehead. Kevin mirrors him with slightly less success, his form suffering as he tries to match Chad's intensity.
"Bro, she's definitely looking this time," Kevin states.
"Obviously. I've been working on my lats."
God, they’re so fucking unoriginal.
Iris walks right past them without so much as a glance in their direction. She's still doing math in her head, lips moving through calculations, completely oblivious to their existence.She might as well be walking past a couple of fire hydrants for all the attention she pays them.
"She's playing hard to get," Chad announces, not even slightly deterred.
"So hard to get, bro."
"It's hot though. The chase, you know?"
"Totally. The chase is the best part."
The "chase" has been going on for over a year with zero progress, but sure, guys. Keep telling yourselves that. I've kept count, because I'm unhinged like that and also because it brings me a small, petty joy. Chad has asked Iris out forty-seven times. Kevin has tried thirty-two times, plus that one poem incident we don't talk about. She's rejected them both so consistently it's basically a campus tradition at this point, right up there with the homecoming bonfire and finals week mental breakdowns.
Chad once left a protein shake on her desk with "Be My Gainz" written on it in permanent marker. She threw it in the trash without opening it. According to locker room gossip, he still thinks she was "considering it."
These are my competitors. I should feel threatened. Mostly I just feel embarrassed for them and mildly concerned about their grasp on reality.
