KNOX
She touched me.
She fucking touched me, and it was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s as if I’m ensnared in her invisible, magnetic pull, and the more she tries to repel me, the harder I chase after her. I don’t blame her for not wanting to tutor me—it was a long shot anyways. But maybe now that I’m on her radar, she’ll take pity on me and have a change of heart.
After talking with her, I raced home to do some much-needed FBI-level research. Thanks to the information I got from her medical bill, I was able to find her social media profile—one that provided me with too much ammunition. She was valedictorian of her high school, she’s a straight-A student with enough awards to fill a trophy case, and she volunteers at the local animal rescue in her spare time.
So, in short, she’s the epitome of perfection and could probably stop wars with a bat of her lashes and a curl of her sugar-lacquered tongue. If we were ever in an alien invasion and forced to surrender a leader to prove humanity’s innocence, she’d be the prime candidate.
She’s so much better than me in every conceivable way, and my ego doesn’t hate it. Strange, I know. I should feel emasculated, but I’m impressed. And slightly turned on. That deviant part of me needs help.
Every Friday night, it’s tradition for the guys to head to Dusky’s and get drunk off our asses, and I’m nothing if not a team player. Plus, I could use a distraction from the fact that my one-time hit-and-stay is now a constant in the story of my uninspired life.
Dusky’s, as usual, is concerningly congested, each table filled to the brim with rowdy college students and overflowing beer pitchers. The indistinct chatter drowns out the Minnesota Mustangs’ game televised on the giant flat screen, a blend of cedarwood, leather, and tobacco perfuming the stale air.
The resin bulb overhead glistens a menacing red. The bloody haze files down the sharp edges of my vision, dousing this unpretentious hole-in-the-wall in a Rayleigh scattering. Puddles of condensation from weeping glasses seep into the pores of the table’s wood grain, and my own fingers are wet as I lift my third drink to my lips, swallowing a hearty swig.
Warmth paves a path down my throat before cannonballing into my stomach, and I’m grateful for the complementary pump of euphoria that inoculates my bloodstream.
The hockey table is joined by Crew’s girlfriend, Merit, and her fiery plus-one, Irelyn. The two girls are inseparable. Merit is cool; she’s sweet and soft-spoken but can hold her own. She also has the same fear-instilling bite that her father, Coach Lawson, has—which I experienced firsthand when she was spearheading last semester’s annual school fundraiser.
Irelyn is pretty much the complete opposite; she’s unfiltered, more energetic than a chihuahua on crack, and usually packs an out-of-pocket punch at the expense of any poor soul who wrongs her. I admire her spitfire attitude.
Crew and Merit…well, they’re made for each other. I don’t really believe in love, alright? I believe in a good fuck, and that’s about it. But those two—they’re so crazy about each other that it almost makes me rethink my whole fuckboy philosophy. I thought that kind of love only existed in fairy tales and sappy romance books, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but jealousy entangles my unfeeling heart in its thorny tendrils. Jealousy in knowing that I’ll never be one of love’s lucky lottery winners.
Also, I’m like ninety-nine percent positive that Irelyn and Harlan have the hots for each other, but the guy is too shy to make the first move.
Merit sits on Crew’s lap, picking an animal-style fry off his plate and popping it into her mouth. “How’s practice?” she asks the table.
“Pretty good. We’re definitely gonna wipe the rink with the South Carolina Sabertooths next Saturday,” Sutton says between mouthfuls of his BLT, a lattice of crisp bacon strips and a generous heaping of mayonnaise slopping from between a perfectly toasted ciabatta bun.
“Yeah, maybe if Knox can get his head out of his ass and stop fussing over that girl he’s always talking about,” Foster jests, waggling his eyebrows.
That fucker.
Merit lights up like a Broadway stage, a meddlesome look glinting in her eyes. “Girl?”
I don’t talk about herthatmuch. And I definitely don’t want to talk about her right now. I thought I’d sworn my brothers to secrecy, but apparently, Foster is on some Guinness-record speedrun to stomp my dignity into unsalvageable fragments.
“Oh, yeah. Some girl he hi?—”
“Some girl in my class!” I interrupt quickly, fear leeching to my side at the prospect of my teammate playing goddamn hot potato with my social life. Just because everyone knows what I did doesn’t mean they need a constant reminder.
Crew perks up. “Wait a second, she’s in your class?”
“That’s a new development,” Axel comments.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the sudden ache in my belly isn’t alcohol inflicted. It feels like my entire body is superheating, my pulse rivaling the deep bass of the outdated EDM music undercutting the rest of the discordant noise. It’s getting harder to breathe. Every eye is on me, waiting for me to projectile vomit the truth, and there’s nowhere for me to run.
Given my silence, Merit slams her hand down on the table, causing a miniature earthquake from her enthusiasm. “Oh my God, do you like this girl?!” she shouts a little too loudly.
“That’s one word for it.” Sutton chuckles under his breath, and I try and atomize him with my unamused glower.
I didn’t want this information to leave my trusted hockey circle. I need to shut this down before it somehow makes its way back to the one person who can’t, under any circumstances, know about my obsession.
I chug the rest of my lukewarm beer before blowing a burp beneath my breath. “It’s not like that.”
