Just so I could see her face.
The plan even sounded reasonable for about five seconds.
Then I realized she could probably figure out pretty easily that I did not, in fact, work for Domino’s, and that obviously made that plan too risky.
So, I settled for the next best thing.
I ordered a pizza, waited until it showed up, and set the box right outside her door. Then I knocked once, hard, and sprinted down the hall like a fugitive before she could open it.
Real smooth, Adler.
Maybe it wasn’t flowers or a grand romantic gesture…but at least she had something to eat.
Although, I guess I could have allowed the pizza guy to deliver it to her door himself instead of risking her seeing me.
But the thought of some stranger standing there, looking at my girl, even for a second…Yeah, no. I couldn’t stomach that.
Regardless, I was now sitting on my couch at home—running on no sleep, half a protein bar, refusing to shower because I couldn’t stand the thought of washing her off me, and packing enough frustration to start a small riot.
It also didn’t help that my dad had been texting all day, demanding we “talk” about last night. Every buzz of my phone made my jaw clench tighter, stacking another layer onto the foul mood already brewing. His tactic today was to try to convince me that I’d “misunderstood” Kenton and that I should let him explain.
I stared at the latest message.
Dad: You’re overreacting, son. Kenton didn’t mean anything by it. He was just joking around. Don’t make this into a bigger deal than it is.
My thumb hovered over the screen, heat crawling up my neck.
Yeah, sure. Because threatening me because I didn’t want to get involved in a gambling ring and jeopardize my whole life washilarious.
I tossed the phone onto the cushion beside me, his text echoing in my head long after it hit the couch. The man had a real gift for pretending his bullshit didn’t stink.
“Fucking catch the ball!” Jace screamed as he lofted a throw pillow at the TV like the receiver’s hands were a personal affront.
I glanced glumly at the replay—the receiver had dropped an easy pass from Jackson Parker, right in the end zone. The ball bounced off his chest and hit the turf, the crowd erupting in boos loud enough to shake the speakers.
Jace slammed his palm on the coffee table and leapt up so fast his beer wobbled on the coaster. “I would never drop that,” he said, pacing like he was practicing a postgame interview. “When I get to the pros? Never. That was amateur hour. Unacceptable. You hear me, future opponents? I. Do. Not. Drop.”
Parker snorted and didn’t bother looking up from his phone. “Keep the pep talk to the mirror, Thatcher,” he said.
I glanced over, expecting to see him scrolling through game stats or maybe the team group chat.
Nope.
I saw…pink.
For a second, my brain short-circuited trying to process what I was looking at. I could see rows of pastel bottles, someone’s hand under a UV light, and I could hear the faint hum of a blow-dryer.
Was that…a nail salon?
I blinked and leaned closer. Yep. Parker was sitting there glued to a live stream of theinside of a nail salon.
It took me a solid three seconds to realize what I was seeing. Or rather,whoI was seeing as Casey’s friend Natalie appeared on the screen.
“Wait…is that?—”
He didn’t even look up. “Casey, Riley, and Natalie,” he said flatly.
My eyebrows shot up.
