I barely manage to stifle a laugh and shake my head as I continue glowering down at my phone. No. I don’t want to be her friend. But if soccer has taught me anything, it’s that forwardprogress is never instant. I’m used to delayed gratification, and winning Cecilia back will be the sweetest form that there is.
Decision made, I type out a quick message.
Me: Hey.
She has her messages set to show read, so I see the moment she opens my text.
Seconds tick by without a reply, and I consider typing out another one.
Am I that guy now? The one who sends a string of messages in some desperate bid to get a chick’s attention?
There are no little bubbles. Nothing to indicate she has any intention of responding.
I rub the back of my neck. Fuck it. Guess I am that guy.
Me: Can we ta?—
I delete the text without sending it and try again.
Me: How are you?—
No. Shit. Why is this so hard? I delete my second attempt and take a deep breath. Just be casual. She won’t want me checking in on her. Despite Austin being a fucking creep. I know asking how she’s holding up is the last thing she wants to hear from me. It’ll just make her throw more walls up.
Third time's the charm. I’ve got this.
Me: We have a game against Crown Point University coming up. It’s a home game. You should come.
I hit send and wait.
Fuck. Should I have worded that as a question? If I made it a question, she’d feel more obligated to respond. Damn. I should have?—
Three little bubbles appear. She’s typing a response.
Yes.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I turn around to find Holt leering behind me, eyes locked on my phone. A cruel smile curls his mouth and he lets out a piercing whistle.
“Damn, Herrera. Who would have thought you’d be the one to turn pussy for a fucking cleat chaser?” He laughs and some of the Zeta Pi members join him.
Julio and Felix drop their shit and immediately step up to flank me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Deacon rise from the bench beside his own locker, but Julio must wave him off because he sits back down, his expression calculating.
“Do you need something?” Julio asks, his voice steady.
Holt eyes him up and down with a sneer. “Not from you,” he retorts. “Unless you plan on acting like our fucking captain for once and put your boy back in his place.”
Silence.
The background noise in the locker room from the team’s chatter, faucets being turned on and off, and other random sounds come to a halt as all eyes turn our way. The tension between us ratchets in the room.
Julio folds his arm over his chest and dips his chin. His eyes narrow into a cold glare. “You wanna run that by me again?” There’s a warning in his voice, but judging by the smirk on Holt’s face, he’s not going to heed it.
Austin takes a menacing step forward. “Get your boy in line,” he growls.
“Or what?” Julio deadpans. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. To curse. Every guy in the room knows how serious Julio is right now.
“Or we’re going to have problems,” Austin snaps, but some of his earlier nerve is slipping away. His mouth dips, eyes now wary.
I laugh. I can’t help it. One second it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop and the next I’m fucking cackling. “Or we’re going to have problems,” I repeat, my voice mocking. “You’re such a fucking cliché. We already have problems, so why don’t you back the fuck off? Or better yet, quit the team so we don’t have to deal with your pretentious ass any longer.”
