“Lyles!” I looked up at the sound of Prescott’s voice and realized he was heading straight toward us.
My stomach sank. God, if “Lyles” was Prescott’s girlfriend, I wasn’t sure what to do. I hung out with Prescott often enough to know he didn’t have a girlfriend, but maybe she was someone he was trying to get with. In that case, I wondered if he was serious or if she’d just be a fuck to him. We had an off-limits policy regarding anyone the guys were serious about. If any of the guys wanted to get with one specific girl and they said, “Dibs,” the rest of us had to back off. It was a stupid tradition implemented before I started playing here and would continue long after I left. Each year, the captain of the hockey team picked a random number, and that was the amount of women each player on the team had to fuck that season. If you didn’t participate and bowed out of Dibs, you had to put $100 in the pot. If you failed to reach the number of women, you also had to put $100 in the pot. Aaron was our captain this year, and he chose the number 10. Since I always met the goal, I’d never had to put a dime in that pot.
Pres threw a peace sign at me as he jogged the last steps to close the distance between us. I watched as he wrapped little Wednesday in his arms and twirled her around once. She didn’t laugh, but she was smiling. It was a nice fucking smile.
“I can't believe Marissa convinced you to come.” He pulled back and took her in from head to toe. “You look good, but you always look good.”
I snorted. They both looked at me. I took a swig of my beer and looked away. It wasn’t that she didn’t look good. She was fucking gorgeous. But she was wearing a t-shirt with Harry Styles’ face that was so big that it probably fitmeloosely. The bagginess of her clothes practically screamed, “Don’t come near me.” I wondered if I would have noticed her if this had been any other night and she hadn’t been standing in my space. My attention vacillated between Prescott’s hand on her shoulder and Aaron, already drunk and about to do a keg stand. I kept my eyes on him while I listened to their conversation.
“How are you?” Pres asked her.
“I’m good. Banks. You know.” She shrugged.
“The semester is almost over. Maybe you can come and party for the next month before we leave.”
“Maybe.”
Liar. Her interest in partying sounded like my interest in chess — nonexistent.
“You know I’m here for you, right?” He lowered his voice as he pulled her into another hug.
“Thanks.” She pulled away, setting both hands on his chest to establish distance. “I was actually on my way out, but I’m glad I got to see you, Pres.”
“What? No way, Lyles. Come on. You haven’t been to any of my games, you haven’t come over, and whenever I’ve gone over, you haven’t been home. You can’t just leave,” he said, touching her shoulder again. Jesus. Pres was handsy. “Why are you standing out here anyway?” He glanced at me. “Wait, you two know each other?”
“Nope,” she said. “Haven’t even met.”
My brows rose. I mean, technically, she wasn’t wrong. We hadn’t formally introduced ourselves, but she made it sound like we didn’t have a conversation. I already knew four things about her: she liked Harry Styles and Pocahontas, didn’t drink at parties, and was bored with life. I couldn’t tell you four things I knew about any other woman at this party, and I’d fucked some of them, so that was saying something.
“Oh.” He looked between us. “Lachlan, this is Lyla. Lyla, this is Lachlan.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Lachlan.” She faced me and extended her hand for me to shake.
The way she did it amused me, but I didn’t let it show as I took it. Her hand was tiny and fragile, and her touch sent an odd electric jolt through me. It made me keep her hand in mine longer than I should have. I tugged her a little closer to me, just to fuck with her, to see if the look on her face would crack. Her expression never wavered, but I saw something shift in her eyes for a millisecond before she finally pulled her hand back. She continued looking at me, those curious eyes making me feel more vulnerable than I cared to admit. Finally, she stepped away and turned to Pres.
“Come to the country club on Sunday,” Prescott said to her. “A few of us are having brunch by the pool. Deidre always asks about you. She’d be so happy to see you.”
“I haven’t seen her in so long,” she said, glancing at the ground and back up at him.
“Come out with us,” he said, smiling as he tapped the tip of her nose.
“Maybe I will.” She smiled at him.
Fucking smiled. It looked real, too. I wondered what it felt like to have someone who didn’t smile often direct something that magnificent at you. I wanted to experience it, even if it was just once.
She patted Pres’ chest. “Well, I’m off, bitches.”
That was so unexpected that I laughed. She walked away from us, holding a peace sign over her head. She never looked at me to say goodbye. Technically, she had, since she’d said bitches, plural, but she didn’t look directly at me. I watched her, waiting for her to look at me as she wove through the crowd. Surely, she’d look back at me. They always did. She stopped walking for a moment when some douchebag bumped into her, and I waited. This was the perfect opportunity for her to look back. She never did.What the fuck?
“She’s. . .” Pres shook his head. “Something.”
“She’s antisocial.”
“This coming from the guy who leans against the wall and watches the party like we’re his peasants.” Pres raised an eyebrow.
I grunted. “Who is she anyway?”
“Lyla James Marichal.” He stuck his hands in his front pockets and rocked on his heels. “She used to be everyone’s wet dream in Olympia High School.”
