Heart slowing. Limbs uncoiling. My eyelids drift shut and somewhere in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, it hits me?—
I never told him about the letters.
The next morning, I wake to the soft snoring of Argyros curled at the foot of the bed. My skull feels like it’s stuck between two warring nations, every throb a cannon blast. Pure agony. My throat is dry and raw, but the thought of leaving Hayes’s bed for water—let alone trekking to the kitchen—feels like a Herculean task.
I burrow deeper under the silky sheets, shutting my eyes against the sliver of daylight sneaking past the thick blackout curtains.
Seriously, what kind of idiot goes shot-for-shot with a football player?
Me, that’s who.
Fragments of last night stitch together in my mind, bright and disjointed flashes like fireworks.
Baklava.
Dylan.
Too much wine.
Shots with Dylan.
More wine.
And, oh yeah, somehow winding up in my best friend’s bed without my pants.
My skin heats at the memory of a half-naked Hayes lying beside me. The rise and fall of his muscular chest. The easy weight of his arm around my waist, as if it belonged there. His cool breath onmy neck. The way my heart slammed against my ribs from being so close to him.
But then I shove the memory aside, pushing the covers back and quickly yanking my hair into a makeshift ponytail. Thinking about Hayes that way… it’s dangerous, for so, so many reasons.
I take a peek to my left to see if he’s still asleep, but the space next to me is already empty.
Oh.
My stomach lurches in protest as I sit up too fast. I curl forward, arms wrapped around my midsection. It feels like an alien is trapped inside, clawing its way out through my intestines.
Last Halloween, Hayes thought it would be fun to have anAlienmovie marathon. Neither of us had ever seen the early ones from the ’80s.
I’ll never forget watching the chestburster scene for the first time. I’d jumped about ten feet in the air when the alien exploded from a man’s body, killing him in a bloody, gory massacre. Hayes, however, had laughed his ass off.
After the movies, I stayed for dinner. Right before dessert, Hayes started choking and gasping and then fell over backward across the dining room table like he was having a seizure. Then his chest erupted, a fountain of blood squirting everywhere.
His shirt.
The dinner table.
My face.
I nearly had a heart attack until I realized it was ketchup, not blood. The whole thing had been anelaborate prank. Hayes could be a real bastard when he wanted to. Suffice it to say, neither I nor his parents were amused.
After I recovered from wanting to kill him, I had to give him credit. It was kind of brilliant, though I still feel queasy every time I think about that dinner.
With great difficulty, I maneuver myself into a sitting position in Hayes’s bed. My stomach makes a series of desperate, gurgling sounds. I’d better get up—and soon—before I throw up again, this time all over Hayes’s expensive 800-thread-count sheets. Then he’d really regret having me spend the night. No way my pretty, polished little sister wakes up puking in bed.
I clutch my belly, rocking in place as I scan the room with blurry eyes. Both Hayes’s car keys and the blackLHU Footballgym bag he keeps by his closet are gone.
Then I remember—it’s Sunday. Practice day.
That means film review, rehab, light conditioning. Hayes never misses a Sunday team session, no matter how wrecked he might be from the weekend.
