‘You watched my games?’ His incredulous tone is so obviously exaggerated, but it does its job, flushing my cheeks.
‘Only so Deena could see Michael play,’ I cover up my momentary slip cleverly. Those two were all over each other. The Romeo and Juliet of the Prosperity lacrosse programme, we called them. The girls and the guys didn’t get along for shit, but Deena and Michael would sneak little hushed conversations during practice, when we were supposed to rotate off the field. ‘We weren’t about to send her in alone.’
‘I see.’ Colt clicks his tongue, turning back to the game. ‘You know, Deena and Michael just got—’
‘Engaged. I heard from her,’ I finish before he can try and make a point. ‘That’s young.’
‘Yeah. But hey, they’re high school sweethearts.’
‘We are not high school sweethearts.’
‘Did …’ Colt does this awkward little choking cough that immediately alerts me to what he’s about to bring up. Oh, no. ‘Did you hear … any of the stuff I said … last night? I was out of it, I honestly didn’t mean to …’
‘What stuff?’
My poker face is exceptional. I grew up in a Texas Hold ’Em household, not to mention one that is half-South Asian, half-Mexican. He won’t get me to crack, I can promise that much. I keep an impassive expression and mirror his glances at the ongoing game.
‘Ah. Okay.’ He seems a little relieved, his brow less tense, but a look of disappointment flashes across his face. It’s gone before I can single it out. ‘It was dumb, anyway.’
It was absolutely not dumb. It was earth-shattering. He doesn’t need to know, just like he doesn’t need to know that—
‘This morning, we … that was totally unintentional,’ says Colt quickly. ‘I’m so sorry that happened. I swear, the fucking pillows must have just …’
‘Hmm.’ It’s my turn to shift awkwardly now. I had hoped this one wouldn’t make its way out of my treasure chest of secrets, but even Colt, as dense as he can be, has the keenness to recognize we somehow slept like a married couple last night. Fine. As long as he doesn’t realize that it was my leg that ended up splayed across his. My head that found its way to his chest. ‘I guess. It happens.’
Chapter Eighteen
The Ballad of Hot Rod
May
‘Today, we hit on the no-look twizzler, something a close friend of mine particularly excels at back in New Haven …’
Colt, with the whistle and keys around his neck, commandeers the clinic like he’s been coaching for an eternity. I’m afraid it’s a good look on him, Rider Orange. The thought is unwelcome in my brain, and I immediately shove it right out the back door the second it enters. He does a good deal of pointing, a couple of waving gestures towards the goal. Were his arms always that jacked? Was he always that jacked, Colt? Andsweet mama, how are his calves stillstunning? For crying out loud, the man was in a knee brace for two months. There’s still tape all over his leg. Stunning calves. Beautiful quads. Quads that could probably crush a watermelon—
‘May!’
‘Huh?’ My eyes snap up from calf-level to meet Colt’s stormy ones.
‘I was asking if you’d like to demo for us.’
Demo? It’shisshot clinic. I blink, waiting for Colt to call me on my BS or turn this into an opportunity to flame me for being off my game, but the switch-up doesn’t come. One of the most complex goals out there, and the MLL’s star scorer isn’t demonstrating it himself?
‘Yeah.’ I slowly adjust my grip on my crosse, stepping up towards the goal, although I’ve still got an eye on Colt. He steps away with a nod towards me. ‘Jordan’ll set you up.’
What?There’s no way he can’t even set me up. It’s our fourth shot clinic and the pattern is striking. When has Coltactuallypicked up his crosse and demonstrated or passed or anything of the sort? I can think of maybe one instance, other than for our bet when he’d first arrived, and for said MLL star scorer, he’d done a piss-poor job.
‘Sounds good.’ I try to give Jordan a dramatic wiggle of my eyebrows to convey my thoughts, but my goggles do me no favours. I probably look like I’m having five different kinds of facial spasms.
Colt blows the whistle, and Jordan flicks the ball my way as I run past the goal. I cradle it in the net of my stick, spin back, and – without looking – fling it towards the net. It’s a frustrating attempt, and one I’m not at all proud of when the ball clears the goal, just barely brushing the side of the net.
‘Shit!’ I groan, crosse raised. ‘Dude, how do you expect me to make this? That shot’s my weakest point!’
I’m about ready to stalk towards Colt, who’s readying his composure for the storm, when someone else’s damn voice saves him.
‘Whoa, what’s this?’
What the hell?
