Chapter 5 A Lesson In Flirting
A LESSON IN FLIRTING
KNOX
She touched me.
She fucking touched me, and it was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s as if I’m ensnared in her invisible, magnetic pull, and the more she tries to repel me, the harder I chase after her.
I don’t blame her for not wanting to tutor me—it was a long shot anyways.
But maybe now that I’m on her radar, she’ll take pity on me and have a change of heart.
After talking with her, I raced home to do some much-needed FBI-level research.
Thanks to the information I got from her medical bill, I was able to find her social media profile—one that provided me with too much ammunition.
She was valedictorian of her high school, she’s a straight-A student with enough awards to fill a trophy case, and she volunteers at the local animal rescue in her spare time.
So, in short, she’s the epitome of perfection and could probably stop wars with a bat of her lashes and a curl of her sugar-lacquered tongue. If we were ever in an alien invasion and forced to surrender a leader to prove humanity’s innocence, she’d be the prime candidate.
She’s so much better than me in every conceivable way, and my ego doesn’t hate it. Strange, I know. I should feel emasculated, but I’m impressed. And slightly turned on. That deviant part of me needs help.
Every Friday night, it’s tradition for the guys to head to Dusky’s and get drunk off our asses, and I’m nothing if not a team player. Plus, I could use a distraction from the fact that my one-time hit-and-stay is now a constant in the story of my uninspired life.
Dusky’s, as usual, is concerningly congested, each table filled to the brim with rowdy college students and overflowing beer pitchers.
The indistinct chatter drowns out the Minnesota Mustangs’ game televised on the giant flat screen, a blend of cedarwood, leather, and tobacco perfuming the stale air.
The resin bulb overhead glistens a menacing red.
The bloody haze files down the sharp edges of my vision, dousing this unpretentious hole-in-the-wall in a Rayleigh scattering.
Puddles of condensation from weeping glasses seep into the pores of the table’s wood grain, and my own fingers are wet as I lift my third drink to my lips, swallowing a hearty swig.
Warmth paves a path down my throat before cannonballing into my stomach, and I’m grateful for the complementary pump of euphoria that inoculates my bloodstream.
The hockey table is joined by Crew’s girlfriend, Merit, and her fiery plus-one, Irelyn.
The two girls are inseparable. Merit is cool; she’s sweet and soft-spoken but can hold her own.
She also has the same fear-instilling bite that her father, Coach Lawson, has—which I experienced firsthand when she was spearheading last semester’s annual school fundraiser.
Irelyn is pretty much the complete opposite; she’s unfiltered, more energetic than a chihuahua on crack, and usually packs an out-of-pocket punch at the expense of any poor soul who wrongs her. I admire her spitfire attitude.
Crew and Merit…well, they’re made for each other.
I don’t really believe in love, alright?
I believe in a good fuck, and that’s about it.
But those two—they’re so crazy about each other that it almost makes me rethink my whole fuckboy philosophy.
I thought that kind of love only existed in fairy tales and sappy romance books, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but jealousy entangles my unfeeling heart in its thorny tendrils.
Jealousy in knowing that I’ll never be one of love’s lucky lottery winners.
Also, I’m like ninety-nine percent positive that Irelyn and Harlan have the hots for each other, but the guy is too shy to make the first move.
Merit sits on Crew’s lap, picking an animal-style fry off his plate and popping it into her mouth. “How’s practice?” she asks the table.
“Pretty good. We’re definitely gonna wipe the rink with the South Carolina Sabertooths next Saturday,” Sutton says between mouthfuls of his BLT, a lattice of crisp bacon strips and a generous heaping of mayonnaise slopping from between a perfectly toasted ciabatta bun.
“Yeah, maybe if Knox can get his head out of his ass and stop fussing over that girl he’s always talking about,” Foster jests, waggling his eyebrows.
That fucker.
Merit lights up like a Broadway stage, a meddlesome look glinting in her eyes. “Girl?”
I don’t talk about her that much. And I definitely don’t want to talk about her right now. I thought I’d sworn my brothers to secrecy, but apparently, Foster is on some Guinness-record speedrun to stomp my dignity into unsalvageable fragments.
“Oh, yeah. Some girl he hi—”
“Some girl in my class!” I interrupt quickly, fear leeching to my side at the prospect of my teammate playing goddamn hot potato with my social life. Just because everyone knows what I did doesn’t mean they need a constant reminder.
Crew perks up. “Wait a second, she’s in your class?”
“That’s a new development,” Axel comments.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the sudden ache in my belly isn’t alcohol inflicted.
It feels like my entire body is superheating, my pulse rivaling the deep bass of the outdated EDM music undercutting the rest of the discordant noise.
It’s getting harder to breathe. Every eye is on me, waiting for me to projectile vomit the truth, and there’s nowhere for me to run.
Given my silence, Merit slams her hand down on the table, causing a miniature earthquake from her enthusiasm. “Oh my God, do you like this girl?!” she shouts a little too loudly.
“That’s one word for it.” Sutton chuckles under his breath, and I try and atomize him with my unamused glower.
I didn’t want this information to leave my trusted hockey circle. I need to shut this down before it somehow makes its way back to the one person who can’t, under any circumstances, know about my obsession.
I chug the rest of my lukewarm beer before blowing a burp beneath my breath. “It’s not like that.”
Merit rolls her eyes at my nonexistent table manners.
“Sure, it’s not. You always talk about girls.
This is the first week in months where you haven’t bragged about some bangin’ sexual escapade.
Which, if my hypothesis is correct—and it usually is—means you have your eye on someone who’s more than some meaningless hookup. ”
“Maybe I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”
“You? I’ll believe that when pigs fly.”
Dammit. Why do I have to be cursed with such a high sex drive? Maybe that’s why I’m so off—I’m not getting laid enough. Oh my God. My worst nightmare is slowly becoming my new reality. I’m depriving women of the Eighth Wonder of the World: my penis. That’s a crime against humanity.
“She’s not anything,” I finally argue, doing my best to fend off whatever Jedi mind tricks Merit is using on me. The closer she gets to exhuming the truth, the harder it is to herd my runaway nerves.
“What’s her naaame?” she sing-songs.
“Not important,” I grumble.
“Fine. What class do you two have together?”
“Again, not important.”
With a pout, Merit slouches against her makeshift seat—i.e. Crew’s chest. He gives her a comforting squeeze on the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, Princess. You know Knox doesn’t play nice.”
I reach for the half-full pitcher and begin to fill up my glass again, though I doubt the piss-flavored liquid will slake my thirst at all. It’s a distraction. A regrettable distraction that I’ll pay for tomorrow morning.
Now, I can’t explain what happens next. Call it my Spidey senses, but I get this inexplicable urge to look behind me, and when I do, Staten Renault is depositing her purse on a table a few feet away from us.
A table which happens to be occupied by basketball point guard, Leif Kennedy.
What one of the most popular guys is doing with her, I have no idea, but envy hacks me to the very bone, sloughing off flesh and tissue with the precision of a hunting knife.
“Maybe he doesn’t need to provide a name after all,” Harlan chimes in, gesturing to my kill-all death glare pointed directly at Mr. Popular.
Staten is laughing at something he’s saying.
I can’t hear them. She looks so…happy, carefree.
I didn’t even know she was capable of feeling anything other than herculean rage.
Why am I so messed up about this? She clearly wants nothing to do with me, and I have more important things to focus my efforts on.
She’s dressed in a black-and-white checkered sweater vest over a long-sleeved button-up, perpetuating a fantasy that I, in good conscience, can never disclose out loud.
A pleated, nightshade-colored skirt adorns her legs—stopping mid-thigh—and her ensemble is paired with matching combat boots and knee-high socks that look a bit too warm for the temperature of the bar.
Nevertheless, my downstairs area is getting a clearly misguided idea of how the night is going to end, and no, it doesn’t involve me unraveling the hot-as-hell ribbon in her hair.
Her whole appearance is understated, and there’s something refreshing about the way that she strays from the spotlight.
Almost as if she wants to be invisible to the rest of the world.
But I see her—I even see the miniscule constellation of barely there freckles scattered over her face.
Irelyn mirrors my line of vision, sucking her teeth. “Ooh, is this mystery girl Staten Renault?”
Fuck. The sound of her name makes me want to hurl. My three drinks are finally starting to catch up with me, and my stomach curdles from the toxic influx. I don’t know how to play this off. I don’t think I can.
Just be honest with your friends, Knox. Staten and you have class together. That’s all. There’s nothing else going on. Give them enough information so that they’ll stop asking questions.
I wrestle back a sigh. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”