What irritates me is the way he keepsalmostingher to death.
Walking her to class.
Lingering after practice.
Sitting with her at lunch like he’s building something.
Looking at her like she’s the only girl in the room—until another girl walks in.
Then something in his face changes.
Only for a second.
Only if you know what to look for.
I know what to look for.
I’ve seen enough men circle what they want while still keeping one hand on what they can’t let go of.
And Isa—Texas—whatever the hell she is to me besides a problem in a white sundress and cowboy boots—thinks she’s standing at the beginning of something.
That’s the part I can’t stomach.
So I stop waiting.
Soccer practice lets out late, and the air behind the athletic fields smells like cold turf, eucalyptus, and the dying last breath of California heat. I’m posted against the fence with my hoodie sleeves hacked off, because God didn’t make these arms to live under fabric, and because I know she’ll notice.
She notices everything even while pretending not to.
The gate opens and they start filing out in packs—shin guards in hand, hair damp, bodies moving like they’ve all been running on pure spite for two hours.
Then I see her.
Tan legs.
Dark hair.
That tight little mouth she gets when she’s tired and trying not to show it.
She spots me and actually stops walking.
That pleases me more than it should.
Then she keeps coming, because she’s not the kind of girl who turns around just because trouble got there first.
“Absolutely not,” she says before she’s even close enough for me to answer.
I grin.
“Good evening to you too, Texas. Waiting for Vale, instead? I think he’s tied up with Stella in the field house.”
She keeps walking.
I push off the fence and fall into step beside her.
She smells like shampoo, sweat, and the expensive body lotion girls from money always seem to use even after practice. It shouldn’t work on me this well.
It does.
