Chapter Thirty Two #2
“Are you kidding me right now?” I spit, venom rippling through my body.
Everest couldn’t be any more obvious if he tried.
First, he crashes my date with demands, and now he’s pulling me from classes to spend every day here with idiots who don’t respect me.
It’s so ridiculous, I could laugh. “You didn’t get your way, so now you’re throwing a fucking power trip? ”
“You need to be here, Meg,” Everest cuts in, his voice tightening for the first time.
My skin tingles from the possessiveness he radiates.
Just beyond him, Thiago straightens and tilts his head, tracking the conversation from a distance.
He can’t hear our words, but if Thi is anything, it’s observant of body language.
Everest steps closer again, crowding my space.
“And you need to be present. How are you supposed to find your way back to yourself with him filling your time with googly eyes and dinner dates?” I glare into the green eyes staring down at me, noting the jealous fury burning there. Something in me snaps.
It’s not just what he’s saying, as convoluted as it is. It’s the assumption behind it. The certainty that he knows what version of me is worth his attention and anything outside of that is a distraction. Anything I decide to create for myself is a mistake.
I’ve been circling this thought for days now, tripping over it, trying to convince myself that the version of myself I should be isn’t always going to feel just out of reach. The old Meg. The one everyone seems to want back. Screw what everyone else wants.
“I’m not going back to how I used to be,” I state, a dangerous edge dripping from my tone. “She’s gone for good.” Everest’s jaw tightens, something flickering behind his expression that I can’t catch. He exhales harshly, shifting the strands of hair around my face that escaped my rushed ponytail.
“I liked you that way,” he mutters so low, I’m sure I misheard. Clearing his throat, Everest swallows and I track the shift of his Adam’s apple. “You were stubborn and tenacious.”
Suddenly, Reid’s sketch flashes in my mind. The way he drew me, the words he wrote. My teeth grind harder.
“I’m getting really fucking sick of people thinking they can label me,” I bite out, stepping back just enough to break the space he’s trying to trap me in.
Turning on my heel, I walk back toward the rack, grabbing two sticks.
I toss one at him harder than necessary, and he catches it at the last second.
A ball drops to the turf between us a second later.
I nudge it forward with my foot, then flick it up into my stick, knocking it back and forth with controlled movements, my stance braced and ready.
“Come on then,” I mutter, the challenge clear in the set of my jaw, the fire in my chest finally finding its release.
Everest doesn’t hesitate. The second the ball leaves my stick, he moves in a flash.
I suck in a breath, a delayed part of my brain forgetting that this field isn’t just my playground.
It’s also his. Where I’ve been struggling to recondition my body after such a long break, Everest has been putting in the hours.
His stick snaps up to meet mine, the crack of plastic on plastic ringing out across the pitch as he hooks the ball cleanly from my control.
I pivot instantly, chasing him down, my cleats biting into the turf.
Lunging forward, my shoulder clips his as I try to knock him off balance, yet he barely budges.
In fact, I reckon I came off worse, rebounding off Everest’s solid frame as he spins, dragging the ball with him.
I take charge, not letting him out of my reach for more than a second.
Skidding my leg out in an illegal move, I manage to regain control of the ball just long enough to spin back and set a course back the way we came.
Everest expected the change in direction, heading me off with a rough tackle.
Neither of us is willing to lose easily.
Our sticks clash again and again as we fight for control like it actually matters, like there’s an end goal.
My lungs burn, my pulse roaring in my ears, but I don’t slow.
Not when he’s pushing like this, not when every glance he throws me feels like a test of my talent.
I go in for a slap check, cracking the length of my stick against his.
The impact jars up my arms, and Everest retaliates instantly, stepping into my space, forcing me back a half step.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register that it’s gone quiet.
At the edge of the field, laps slow, and then stop entirely.
The team’s attention shifts towards us, eyes settling with a subtle shift in energy.
Unlike last time I went toe to toe with Everest, there’s no chanting or obvious hatred against me.
They simply watch, waiting to see who will come out on top.
I don’t back down, and nor does Everest. If anything, it fuels the fire, pushing us harder, faster, neither willing to be the one who backs down first.
Everest feints left, then cuts right, trying to slip past me, but I manage to predict him this time.
Afterall, he was taught by Bobby Mansfield, a prestigious lacrosse champion who I’ve studied intensely.
He taught Everest everything he knows, which means all of Everest’s plays can be found in the sports section of the library.
Stepping into him and blocking his path, our bodies collide with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
For a split second, our chests are nearly brushing, breath mingling, eyes locking onto one another’s with an intensity that burns.
Then he shoves off, dragging the ball back into his control.
I spin with him, refusing to give him an inch.
My stick snaps down, catching his just as he moves to shoot, the ball ricocheting loose between us. We both dive for it at the same time.