“You’d love that,” I deadpan before adding, “I was looking for Analiese.”
It’s the only thing I can think to say, because I do not want Sumner Winchel thinking I’ve intentionally sought him out.
Sumner cuts his eyes away from mine. “Sure.”
His tone grates against my bones. It’s cavalier. Haughty. My pulse rises, a result of his unwanted presence.
I’ve lost Sabine and Inessa. Great. I wonder if they assume I veered off to do my own thing. This only fans the flames of my irritation.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Julian Montfort waving enthusiastically at Sumner. Weird. Montfort’s a record-setting member of crew who has, in my recent recollection, never uttered a single word to him.
The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it. “How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Befriend the entire rowing team in a week.”
“My striking looks and charismatic personality,” he intones, still avoiding my gaze. Which, again, is weird. BecauseI’mmad athim. Not the other way around.
It’s not a real answer, and I’m not sure I care to stick around for one, so I start toward the crowd.
“They were talking about my Twitch channel on Ivernia’s gaming Discord,” Sumner says, his words stopping me.
I turn. At least he has the decency to make eye contact, though he doesn’t appear happy about it. In fact, he’s looking at me like I’ve offered to extract his teeth with a rusty wrench sans anesthesia.
“They like it, I guess,” he clarifies. “I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary, Carmichael.”
I’m aware of Sumner’s Twitch channel, even if I haven’t seen it firsthand. He’d go live from Jared’s room over the summer as hestreamed himself playing this video game calledLegends of Lightwhile simultaneously breaking down complex math equations. It’s a niche corner of the vast black hole that is the internet. Jared told me he has hundreds of thousands of followers, which I don’t doubt. Because while Sumner might be annoying, he’s brilliant when it comes to numbers. He once unlocked improper integrals for me in a way that clicked.
Not that I’d ever admit it.
“Mild internet fame is a little out of the ordinary.”
“Fair.” He tilts his head. “Thison the other hand—”
I raise my eyebrows. “This?” I echo.
“I assumed,” he begins, studying me earnestly, “our next interaction would involve an alarming number of torches and pitchforks.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I have a proclivity for dull blades.”
A smile cracks through his resolve. “Careful,” he says. “You almost sound believable.”
“You know, you could have kept your mouth shut,” I say, perhaps a little too forcefully. “For once.”
“It’s a game.” He slips his hands into his utilitarian olive jacket, the only one I’ve ever seen him wear, even in the winter. “Maybe one of these days, you’ll be good at it.”
Annoyance flits through me. “You couldn’t take the L?”
“No,” he says, firm. He takes a half step closer, lowering his voice. “And don’t stand there and act like you wouldn’t have done the same.”
I flatten my lips. Because he’s right.
I hate when he’s right.
“Besides,” he continues, a gleam in his eye, “Capture brings out your competitive side.”
“I don’t have a competitive side.”
