My spine went straight.
She was pretty in that polished, expensive way that looked casual until you added up the hair, lashes, nails, tan, and jewelry. She slid into his space like she’d done it before, hip brushing his thigh, one hand landing on his forearm.
Again with the touching.
Was there a sign on him I couldn’t see?
Public bicep. Please handle?
Drew glanced down at her hand, then at me.
I smiled.
It was not a friendly smile.
The girl either missed the warning or had the survival instincts of a decorative pillow.
“I need your jersey for the party this weekend,” she said. “We’re doing athletes and angels.”
I nearly choked on air.
Drew blinked once. “Athletes and angels.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She tilted her head and dragged one fingernail down his arm. “You promised me last month.”
Drew’s eyes flicked to me again.
There it was.
The tiniest bit of panic.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Like he knew exactly how close I was to weaponizing a plastic fork.
“I didn’t promise you my jersey,” he said.
“You said maybe.”
“That means no in man language.”
She pouted. Actually pouted. “Come on. I’d look cute in it.”
Something hot and stupid moved through me.
Of course she would look cute in it. Everyone on campus would probably look cute in Drew’s jersey. That was the problem. His number was not sacred. His hoodie was not sacred. His bed was not sacred. He had been loose, loud, adored, touched, wanted, available.
And I had no right to hate any of that.
No right at all.
Still, I heard myself say, “His jersey is taken.”
Both of them looked at me.
Drew very slowly smiled.
