I’m crazy about the fact that his gym t-shirts sport non-existent sleeves. There are holes where his arms go and thoseholes are so big and sort of hanging that you can see patches of the side of his ribs and his obliques.
It’s fascinating. And so sexy.
It hammers home the fact that this is real.
That Arrow is really here, at St. Mary’s.
The secret love of my life, my sister’s boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
Ex.
God, it’s still so weird to call him that.
I shake my head and continue toward the soccer field with Poe, Callie and Wyn, who have no interest in any kind of sports whatsoever. But picking a sport at St. Mary’s is compulsory because it falls under team building exercises.
From the looks of it, we’re kind of late because all the girls are already here, and they seem super excited and chatty.
Well, why wouldn’t they be?
He’s a soccer superstar and for the past two days, the campus has been buzzing with the news of him being the new soccer coach.
Which somehow, believe it or not, has made me even more infamous.
Some hate me because I lived in the same house as he did, which is a very weird reason to hate someone. Some offered to be my friends if I dished out dirt on him, which I absolutely refused to do. So basically, everyone hates me a little more than they did last week.
Yay me.
We reach the field just as someone asks the question, “Can we get your autograph?”
Before I can figure out who said that or Arrow can even respond to it, another one jumps in. “And a picture?”
“We don’t have a phone, idiot,” someone says.
“So what? We can just use Coach TJ’s phone,” the second girl throws out.
Coach TJ is the lady standing by Arrow with a clipboard. Like every other teacher at St. Mary’s, she’s stern – not as stern as Miller though – and has a tight bun. “Girls –”
Coach TJ doesn’t get to talk because yet another girl speaks out. “I’m so sorry to hear about your injury,” the third girl says, and the mood of the group quickly changes, becomes somber. “Galaxy was so close to winning the cup second year in a row.”
The first girl who asked about the autograph jumps in then. “Yeah, we all thought you guys had it in the bag. It was such a sure-shot deal.”
Several other girls murmur the same thing, but I’m more focused on watching him. Watching the new Arrow.
His reaction at the mention of his fake injury.
I watch as his jaw clamps and his summer-blue eyes narrow for a few seconds, before his folded arms flex and his stance widens. I watch as his anger sort of flows from one part of his body to another.
And I get this stupid urge again, to touch him.
To touch this newly formed anger.
“Yeah, it is,” he says in a tight but polite voice. “You think you’ve got something in the bag but turns out that you haven’t. You deal with it though.”
I bite my lip as the urge grows.
It grows and grows.
