Once he turns to the board, my head cranes in her direction. “Wear to what?” I whisper.
“To Senior Night for the football team, duh. I figured you’d have the schedule memorized for someone who claims to love football like you do,” she snarks.
Seeing the puzzled look on my face, she explains, “It’s the last home game for the seniors on the team, the biggest game before the Turkey Game.”
I cut her off. “I know what a senior night is.”
Shay rolls her eyes. “So what needs to be explained, then? Ours is Friday, your men are playing, and we’re going. So, you need an outfit to wear, bitch.”
“Um, they aren’t all my men,” I mumble, hoping they don’t hear me. The last thing I want is to have to deal with is growly proclamations.
I blush, remembering Lev’s last week. The way he tied me up. I want to experience more of that.
“Right,” she dramatically sighs. “That’s why they all look at you like they want to infuse you into their skin. Even Wes, who was the captain of all dicks to you, is looking at you right now like he wants to bend you over and—”
I cut her off again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wes, of all people, is definitely not mine. Shit, he was just with Sam yesterday at some private meet-up spot.”
“Miss Bishop and Miss Warren, would you like to be the one to teach this class? I’ll take a seat since you both have so much to say,” Mr. Jameson says snidely, ending our conversation.
“Or you could turn around and just teach,” Wes commands from behind me. I can’t see his face, but I’m pretty sure his rich chocolate eyes are laced with challenges, daring Mr. Jameson to test him.
Never one to care who any of the heirs are, Mr. Jameson directs his ire to Wes. “Is that so, Mr. Edgewood? Did you mysteriously wake up in a reality where who you are gives you authority in my class?”
That apparently was the wrong thing to say. I watch as Lev’s face tilts to the side, studying our calculus teacher, and Owen’s fingers begin to drum on his desk.
“It’s funny you think that, because you must be the one living in a waking dream if you think who I am isn’t the only reason I’ve allowed you to hold that semblance of control, Jameson—don’t let the bit of powerweallow make you forget that,” Wes seethes.
Wyatt cracks his knuckles while giving Mr. Jameson a sinister smile to drive home Wes’s point.
Mr. Jameson recoils at the weight of Wes’s words before clearing his throat and returning to the smart board. “Like I was saying, coefficients are the values that multiply the predictor values in a linear regression,” he explains, accepting his chastisement and moving on.
“You were saying,” Shay leans back in, a shit-eating grin plastered across her face.
“Shut up,” I laugh, elbowing her back upright.
Maybe Wes is trying to do better, but I still wouldn’t consider him mine.
The remainder of class passes, and I feel their presence as I pack my things and prepare to leave. Looking up, I see the guys standing in a semi-circle around my desk.
“Hey,” I say, glancing back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”
I see Shay out of the corner of my eye, and her stupid Cheshire cat grin is back in place. Turning to her, I mouth, ‘Laugh it up, ho’before returning my attention to the guys.
“As you’ve heard, Senior Night is tomorrow, and we’d like you to wear this.” Wes holds out a jersey.
I reach to take it from him, holding it out in front of me to see the number seven printed on the back, along with Washington. It’s Lev’s.
“We were going to duel it out for the honor of having you wear our number, but football is Lev’s thing. We just play. So, it only makes sense you wear his,” Wyatt chimes in.
I’m going to wear the jersey, but I feel they should have to sweat it out for assuming I’d want to wear one and then choosing whose I’d wear.
“So, we’re just out here dictating my wardrobe now?” I quip, giving each of them a pointed glare. They start to fidget, and I have to stifle my laugh.
Wes rubs the back of his neck. “We didn’t mean… we just wanted… fuck. Sorry,” he rushes out.
I burst into laughter. Seeing them squirm is one thing but watching Wes stumble over, trying not to be a dick, is hilarious.
“I’m just kidding. I’ll gladly wear your jersey, Lev,” I say, finally putting them out of their misery.
