Sophomore Year #3
I watch as our team heads toward the pony lines, and then I see Penn sitting motionless on his horse, disappointment clear in his posture.
No one likes to lose, but when he finally looks up, his eyes once again find me in the stands, and his expression shifts.
The loss hitting differently because while he may not have won, at least he gets to see me.
He trots over to the pony line and hands his horse off to one of his teammates before crossing the field.
They all watch, and the anger I had felt seconds ago fades quickly, replaced with giddy excitement at his grand gesture of running off the field, his destination clear: me.
"I'll meet up with you in a bit. I'm going to go meet up with Philip," Emma says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and ducking off into the crowd before I can respond.
She's been acting sketchy all day. After she told me about tonight and Penn's plan, I thought things would level out, but if anything, she's only been acting more strange.
Big arms wrap around me, lifting me off the ground before I can give it any more thought. "How is it possible you're even prettier in person?" Penn says as he spins me in a circle.
"If you set me down so I can get a good look at you, I might say the same thing," I tease, breathless from the spinning or maybe from the way his arms feel wrapped around me.
"Sorry, I couldn't help myself." He sets me on my feet, steadying me with one hand on my waist while quickly taking a sign from a guy nearby who's gone in a blur.
His hair is damp with sweat, curling slightly at his temples, and there's a flush across his cheekbones from the match.
"Plus, I needed to give my friend a chance to give me this.
" He turns the sign around, and I catch the nervous flicker in his eyes before he masks it with that confident smile. "You're my main goal. Homecoming?"
My eyes go wide. "You don't like dances."
"I only said that to throw you off my trail." His tongue darts out and sweeps over his bottom lip. "Say yes."
A big goofy smile takes over my face as warmth floods through me.
I nod my head and manage, "Yes," my voice barely carrying over the small crowd around us clapping in celebration.
I'm once again swooped up in his arms, and this time, I notice how his heart pounds against my palm where it rests on his chest. "What if I had said no? " I ask on a laugh.
"Honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead.
When I put my mind to something, I'm all in.
" This time, when he sets me down, it's on the bench, and we're almost eye level now. This close, I can see the green flecks in his hazel eyes, and there’s a slight scrape on his jaw from the match.
"The second I found out you were planning the dance, I started thinking up ways to ask.
" His gaze briefly flicks over the people leaving.
"But I'm glad you didn't say no." He grimaces.
"That would have been embarrassing. Want to go somewhere? "
"I can't leave campus."
"We don't have to leave to be alone." His fingers intertwine with mine before he gives my hand a gentle tug.
"Sure," I say, hopping off the bench.
We've only managed to take two steps when I freeze, my eyes closing in automatic annoyance as I hear my name called, "Asha," his voice like nails on a chalkboard.
I consider ignoring it, taking another step, and then another, like I never heard him at all, but ignoring him would be a kinder fate, and I'm not in the giving mood.
"Is the decorating done?" he asks as I spin around to face him.
"Almost," I say with a sweet mocking smile. "You can finish."
"That's not how this works," he says, closing some of the distance between us.
"That's exactly how this works." I step toward him, unafraid. "You ditched all day for polo." I put my hands on my hips. "Now it's my turn."
"Greco gave me a pass. Polo is an extracurricular. So, unless you have a late-night competition tonight, we need to get to the hall," he challenges with a smug 'gotcha' look written all over his face.
"We…"—I gesture between us—"aren't going anywhere.
" I step dangerously closer and stab my finger into his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt.
"I'm leaving with Penn, and you're not going to stop me," I state firmly, hating how my voice wavers just slightly.
"I've been playing nice. I know why you are here.
Why you were sent to Ridgewood. And I'm not the one trying to correct an unfavorable track record, so I suggest from now on you stay out of my way. "
His file spelled it out: flight risk, pattern of reckless behavior, refusal to prioritize academics.
His father sent him here to get serious about school, to prove he could focus on something other than rodeos and ranch work.
His family breeds Thoroughbreds. Horses are in his blood, but that wasn't enough.
Mr. Hale wanted his son to get an education, not just callused hands and belt buckles.
And I’ve done my homework. I know Trigger is failing calculus—or close enough to it that one bad test could tip him over the edge. I wonder how Daddy Hale would feel knowing his son was spending more time at the stables than in the library.
If my words touched a nerve, I wouldn't know it.
If anything, the arrogant ass looks amused.
His dark eyes practically sparkle as he crosses his arms, and I swear I see his jaw tick, just once, before that infuriating smirk returns.
"I'm flattered you called home to talk to your daddy about me.
" He leans in, close enough that I can smell his sweat mixed with his cologne.
"I didn't realize you thought about me outside of the classroom. "
My heart hammers against my ribs. "In your dreams. I saw your file."
"Call it what you want, sweetheart." The nickname rolls off his tongue like a caress, and I hate it.
"It doesn't change the fact that you were in a room without me, and Penn Hadley wasn't the guy on your mind.
It was me." His eyes trail the side of my face, lingering at my temple, then my jaw, and I stand statue still, my nails digging crescents into my palms, determined not to let him see how he gets under my skin.
How every nerve ending feels electrified standing this close to him.
"Whatever, Hale." I force steel into my voice even as my pulse races.
"I'm not doing this with you, and I won't be at the hall tonight.
I'll see you at the dance tomorrow night, or I won't. I really hope the latter is true.
" I turn on my heel before I do something monumentally stupid, like hauling off and punching him in the nose.
If I want to beat him at his own game, I have to be a thorn in his side the way he is mine.
I wrap my arm through Penn's, and he asks, "Everything okay? Do you want me to handle him?"
Penn's arm feels wrong somehow. Too loose. Too comfortable. Not like the electric charge that shot through me when I pressed my finger against Trigger's chest. I shove the thought away viciously.
He's heard me complain about Trigger Hale on more than one occasion, and after Trigger's comments just now about thinking about him outside the classroom, I feel foolish more than anything.
I want to deny it. I should be able to deny it, but the truth sits heavy in my chest. He does take up space in my mind when he's not around.
Not because I want him to, but because he's an obstacle, a problem I need to solve.
That's all it is. It has to be. He took something from me.
Something that can never be replaced. And I'll never forgive him for that.
"No, I can handle him."
"Oh, and Asha…" Trigger calls after me again, his voice carrying that rough edge that scrapes down my spine, causing both Penn and me to look back. "Nice ponytail."
The words hit like a punch. My hand flies instinctively to my hair, the high ponytail I'd pulled it into this morning without thinking. The same way I wore it that day. The day my mother styled it for school. The day we don't talk about.
I furrow my brow as his hard glare holds my eyes for what feels like an eternity, and there's something molten beneath that stare, something entirely too knowing.
Of all the comments he could have made, that one hits close to home.
Too close. As if he's been cataloging details about me that I didn't realize anyone could see.
He pulls his gloves off slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, before giving me his back and walking away. Even his retreat feels like a challenge. I pull out my phone with shaking hands I refuse to acknowledge. Still no reply from my mystery friend.
Academic Hostage: I really wish you had texted me back.
As soon as it's sent, it's read. When dots appear, I glance up in the direction I saw Trigger walking, but he's gone. My chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
Captive Audience: I didn't have my phone. I thought I lost it. I just found it between the seats in my car.
My blood runs cold. Normally, that would be a likely excuse, but we don't drive on campus.
Academic Hostage: Why would you lie?
The dots appear and disappear three times before his response comes through.
Captive Audience: Do you want the truth?
My finger hovers over the screen as my mind races to Trigger's knowing look, to the ponytail comment, to the way he called me "sweetheart" like he's said it a thousand times before in the privacy of his own thoughts. To the timing of every message I've ever received.
Academic Hostage: No.
I shove my phone into my pocket and let Penn guide me toward the dorms, but my mind is spiraling.
It can't be Trigger. It can't be. Because if the boy who infuriates me and the boy who understands me are the same person, then I've been lying to myself about more than just how much space he takes up in my thoughts.
I've been lying about the real reason my heart races when he's near, the real reason I can't stop myself from rising to every challenge he throws at me, the real reason that, even now, walking away from him, all I want to do is turn around and demand the truth I just told him I don't want.
God help me, I think I already know it. And if I'm right, then everything, absolutely everything, is about to get infinitely more complicated.