25. Chapter 22
“ I figured you’d be here,” Charlie’s standing outside of the weight room when I emerge, arms crossed, bag sitting by her feet.
“You have a habit of stalking me?” I bark the question at her.
She laughs, flashing her phone at me, “It’s called a text, ever heard of it?” Jax’s name is at the top of the screen. I should be concerned about that, but one of the rules we both agreed to is not to ask questions.
Eyeing her, I head back toward my dorm. I’ve been hiding in the weight room practically all day, ignoring classes and all the work I’ve put into them. “What do you want?”
“You and I need to discuss tomorrow night,” she falls into step beside me. She’s taller than most women, almost as tall as I am. I’ll bet if she puts on a pair of heels she’ll be taller than me. I don’t bother answering her, she’s going to continue either way. “Opal, Hannah, and I are making shirts, the two girls with your group…”
“Cin and Gemma,” I provide when she goes silent.
“Would they like to join us?”
I snort and stop walking, turning to face Charlie so she understands what I’m about to say. “I highly doubt Talon will even come to the game, much less let Cin wear a t-shirt meant for another guy, sport be damned. And I didn’t ask you to come, nor do I care if you do.”
“Let Cin?” Charlie raises a brow, “Listen, we agreed to make this look legit, Banks. This is what girlfriends do.”
“You’re not my girlfriend.” I remind her.
She grips my lower arm, nails digging into my flesh, she pulls me aside, looking around as if anyone gives two fucks about our conversation.
“I’m not above throwing down with a man. You should know this. So if you fuck this up for me, know that I will cut your dick off and feed it to the hounds, and that’ll just be the appetizer.”
Her threat falls on deaf ears. I don’t care what she thinks she can do, I’ve already done the most damage to myself that I can.
“Banks, I swear to God,” she’s growling now.
“Yeah, torture, pain,” I roll my eyes, “I got it.”
We walk in silence until we’re at Hammonds Hall.
Charlie hands me her phone with a new contact already pulled up, ready to be filled out. At my raised brows, she explains, “It’s for your number, considering we’re getting married, I should probably have that.”
Plugging my number into her phone feels like another strike against me, another betrayal that I won’t be able to make right. But I do it anyway and fire off a text to myself, so this isn’t one-sided.
“We should probably, you know, text. Believable, right?” She doesn’t sound like texting me interests her at all, and I don’t blame her.
“You want me to text you lovey dovey shit?” I raise a brow, and her eyes flash up to mine.
“I don’t think you have it in you, Pretty Boy.” Her laugh carries as she walks up the stairs, leaving me standing there with a scowl on my face.
She stops, turns around, and the flash on her phone goes off. Around a laugh she says, “Now that’s a good look.”
Disappearing behind the doors to her dorm, I rub my eyes with my finger and thumb, she’s going to give me hell. Striding away from the building, I head for my own. I need a shower and possibly an all-nighter to put myself back on track.
Midterms are going to be fun, and then there’s the final group project Mr. Ore has planned. The only thing we know is when and where to be, he won’t provide anything further. I have a feeling it’s going to be a complicated system that we’ll all have to untangle.
My other two classes are online tests that my professors uploaded a week early, so I can take them anytime after all of my assignments are turned in.
The clock on my phone says it’s a little after two in the morning when I’ve submitted the last assignment needed to unlock the exam. I’m not tired, and the exam is only fifty questions, so I type in the code that’s auto-generated specifically for me and begin the test.
After another hour, my mouse hovers over the submit button. If my grades tank, I really won’t be able to play, despite the shitty practice. I can’t remember if the professor told us we would receive our score right away or if it would be given to us. Reading back over my answers, to be sure, I click the submit button and up pops the score.
Ninety-Two.
Fuck yeah! Holy shit, I should tell Henry. The thought stops me in my tracks. He doesn’t care, he shouldn’t care. But it sure does seem like something a fiancé would share.
Me: Scored a 92, guess I’ll get to play tomorrow.
I don’t expect her to answer, it’s a little past three-thirty in the morning, so I put my stuff away and climb into bed. My phone pings a few minutes after I’ve settled.
Charlie: Look at you go.
I don’t bother responding, but it makes me chuckle. I think Charlie and I could be friends if not for the looming press of marriage hanging over us.