34. Hendrix #2
The sound of water turning on has me swing open the bathroom door, finding the guy I now call boyfriend standing outside of the shower.
“Not a chance, Letterman. I’m showering alone.”
I’m looking to get clean, not dirty.
Saint, the absolute idiot that he is, decides the best response to my denial is swinging his dick around like a helicopter to try and entice me.
It does, obviously, but not enough to miss my drawing class.
“Hurry the heck up and wash your ass.”
I slam the door just as Saint yells, “Aw, c’mon! I’m already at a semi!”
“I love how you look in your boyfriend’s Letterman, by the way.” Theory waggles her eyebrows next to me on the bleachers.
A new one, since Saint is hanging the one we destroyed like a shrine in his dorm room. Took a lot of arguing to convince him to at least keep it face forward so nobody could see the tiger stripes.
I gape down at the black, gold, and white leather jacket I’m drowning in. “Oh, God, I’ve become a fuckin’ cliche.”
“Nah.” She bumps my side. “It’s sweet.”
Sweet isn’t the word I’d use for her brother forcing my arms into it like a parent does a child who hates dressing up.
It’s an intense Friday game night. Last one before the championship, and the first one I’ve been to since homecoming.
From what I’ve gathered throughout the weeks from The Royals’ sycophants, the team has been absolutely killing it during the playoffs, same goes for the game we’ve been watching for over an hour.
The hope for them to continue with the streak was the only reason I caved to wear Saint’s jacket “as his good luck charm.”
But now that I’m front row watching Saint dominate the field, listening to fans scream his name, yeah, I’ll admit it does feel good knowing I get to go home with everyone’s favorite star quarterback .
By home, I mean thirty feet away in my dorm room.
It’s almost the end of the final quarter, and Saint is amidst a huddle as my phone vibrates in my hand. A text from a flu ridden Archer.
Archer: How are they doing?
Me: 24-0
Archer: Please don’t tell me you’re wearing
his Letterman.
I wince.
Me: Fine…I won’t tell you *cringe smile emoji*
Archer: *eye roll emoji, eye roll emoji, eye roll emoji*
Archer: Such a cliché.
Damn him.
Me: How you feeling?
Archer: Like I’ve been hit by a mac truck.
Me: Sorry babe.
Archer: Meh…I’ve got Netflix.
Me: Want me to head over to you after the game?
Archer: Nahhhhhhh I’m gonna finish this episode of Riverdale and take some Nyquil…you go hang out with your new *vomit emoji* boyfriend *vomit emoji*
I know Archer’s just kidding, well, mostly , but I don’t want my best friend thinking me being with Saint will change anything between us. If Archer needs me, I’m there no question, and if Saint can’t handle it, then he’ll just have to use one of his three thousand dollar pillows to scream into.
Me: You sure? Because I’ll leave this bitch right now for a cuddle sesh.
Archer: Ha! Doubt you’d wanna spend the night with me, green snot, and a Neti Pot.
Yeah…maybe I should draw a line this time.
Me: I think Nyquil will be a better friend to you right now.
Archer: Night Hen…enjoy whatever fuckery happens tonight in The Pit.
Archer: Shit that reminds me…did you hear anything about Gunner?
The fight runner?
Who the hell ever does if it’s not Fight Night?
I’ve seen the guy maybe twice being an actual student, other than that, just The Pit.
Me: No…but there’s no fights tonight.
Archer: Word in the halls is he’s no longer running it. Some sort of shit went down during the last Fight Night.
Me: That was months ago.
Archer: Yeah…and notice how there’s been no Fight Night since.
That’s a good point…usually it’s twice a month without fail. The Royal Heathens make sure of it.
Me: What happened?
Archer: From what I heard from the vine is he invited his cousin or some shit…there was an accident.
Me: What kind of accident?
Archer: A baaaaaaaaaad one (flame emoji, flame emoji, flame emoji)
Oh my God, this boy can never get through a rumor without dramatic effect.
Me: DUDE.
Archer: Fine…from what I’m hearing he was drunk as fuck trying to light one of the sconces…dropped the match on his shirt…THAT WAS DRENCHED WITH WHISKEY.
Me: That sounds absolutely unbelievable *eye roll emoji*
Archer: Totally a cap...especially since he was sent to Thornvale not to be heard about again.
Me: How the hell did you hear about this?
Archer: I was there this morning getting checked out…nurse birdies be chirpinnnnnnn.
Me: You went to Levi’s dad’s hospital for the damn flu?
Granted, every student who attends Riverside, and their families, are required to use Thornvale Medical Center. It’s literally a stipulation for admittance into the school. If that doesn’t scream corruption, I don’t know what does.
Archer: Wanted to make sure this shit ain’t the Rona, yo.
My eyeroll is a painful, necessary evil.
Me: You really are so dramatic Arch.
Archer: Better to be dramatic than quarantined.
Me: That’s not even a thing anymore…and as for The Pit tonight…we’re pulling an audible.
Archer: What do you mean?
Theory, along with the crowd, erupts in cheers, and when my head darts up from the phone, I see The Royals scored another touchdown.
I join in on the cheering just before it dies down, but in perfect time to find Saint pointing at me and gesturing putting on a jacket.
As if trying to say he was right, I’m the reason his team has been winning every game since September.
I give him a yeah, yeah tilt of my head, then when he’s back to whatever formation involves a guy’s ass near his groin, I return to texting with Archer.
Me: LACE instead.
Enough time passes before Archer responds for Theory to call Vic with an update on the game, and talk up her quarterback big brother with me. Then start explaining how relieved she is that he finally got his groove back.
Saint? Get his groove back? In football ?
“What happened?”
“Eh, he’s been a little distracted…” She eyes me pointedly, but in amusement.
Oh.
Well, that’s a relief for me too.
And I’m not talking about the groove returning .
Yeah, I could tell Saint was hurting in his own way when we stopped talking, but enough to throw him off his favorite game? Well, I wouldn’t be a post lovesick girlfriend if knowing this didn’t make me a little giddy.
“How bad was he?” I ask, watching closely as he gets into position again.
She scoffs a chuckle. “Enough to have coach Balkan threaten to bench him during the championship game if he fucked up one more time.”
My relief goes flying into panic as fast as the football Saint chucks across the field.
“Holy shit.” My eyes widen. “Can he really do that?”
Theory shrugs. “I mean, I guess so. Saint is a pompous ass when he wants to be, but also takes his responsibilities super seriously. Especially when he knows people are depending on him.”
Thinking back to day one, I can recall dozens of times Saint pissed me off, the same number of times—if not more—where he’s shown up for me when he didn’t have to.
Like when our junior year biology teacher called me out for drawing in class, and when he threatened to send me to Beaumont, Saint threatened to send him to the unemployment line.
In front of the entire class.
The guy was terminated by the end of eighth period.
One time, I had two JV idiots spit some fat jokes at me in the hall, and the next day they had burns lined like hickeys down their necks. Saint never told me he Halo-ed them, and I never asked, but the way the two assholes refused to look at me after said more than enough.
Even Stevenson eventually admitted Saint only stun-knuckled him because he was pissed he didn’t protect me. Something about how he’d kill Stevenson if he ever allowed a crazy dude to put hands on me again.
Granted, Saint was the crazy dude with his hands on me, but executing methods correctly was never his strong suit. Up until Stevenson and I ended, I was convinced he was retaliating for me rubbing the guy I was fucking in his face.
Saint was retaliating, yeah, but not against me.
“Shit…I really hope that doesn’t happen.”
Theory waves me off. “Don’t stress it, babe. Saint knows what he’d be losing if he did.”
I’m about to ask what that is exactly when my phone vibrates again.
Archer: You really think going out to a public place like that is a good idea?
What kind of freaking germs have gotten to this guy’s head? We were at that club together not too long ago…and surrounded by acres of woods for his party weeks after.
Me: Why would it be a bad idea?
Another minute passes before he answers.
Archer: Are Carlo and Saint going?
As if the first one isn’t standing idle by the concessions, sticking out like a sore thumb in a button down, suspenders, and slacks. On his third Manhattan Special. Carlo’s version of my demand to keep his ass looking more casual, less criminal.
As for the second, Saint has made it obvious he’s been tracking me wherever I go the entire time. Yeah. I found the app hidden in my phone, plus the tiny trinket I’m sure he got from his dad attached to the inner wall of my bag.
It enraged me when I found the black Cheerio sized device, given the cut was still fresh after what he did to me with Theory. But, for some bizarre reason, I couldn’t find it in me to remove it.
Me: Obviously. What’s the prob dude? Why you acting sussy-bus?
Archer: I’m not…just thinking along the lines of a scarred up Annalie…Royals…Mafia…Bratva drama…and how things could pop off at any minute with all of them.
Fuck Annalie and any revenge she’d be stupid enough to pull after a hefty payoff and iron clad contract from one of the Royal families.
As for the mafia pop off…nothing has. Like, at all.
I’m starting to really think whatever shit’s going on is being blown way out of proportion. The Salvinis and Ivanovs are ruthless, and if either of them wanted to take out a bible thumper and his offspring, I’m pretty sure they would’ve already.
Shit…everyone knows the previous head of the Salvinis was a known psycho who went on a murder spree against the Ivanov family.
The kicker? Because it was on his bucket list.
Nikolai Ivanov declared a nasty war ever since, and let’s just say his family’s methods of punishment are not much less deranged.
The possibility of Saint, Theory, and-or me getting caught in the crossfires of people like this has bile threatening to lurch up my throat. It also has me wondering if I’m wrong and Vic and his Salvini allies are just really good at hiding.
Archer: Forget I mentioned it. Everything is fine and the flu meds are making me paranoid.
Archer’s confession eases my worries, but not enough to throw them away completely as I wish him goodnight and remind him I’m just a phone call away.
I make sure to focus the lingering nerves on Saint’s groove and winning this game as Theory and I watch the rest of it sipping sodas.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Theory hops out of her seat, squealing as her brother scours what little field space is left between him and a touchdown.
Something clicks in Saint’s head, making him launch the football in the direction of a wide open player, number thirteen A.K.A. Leviathan, who’s edging closer to the touchdown zone with his arms out.
I stand too, frozen with hands covering my mouth, imagining all the impossible ways Saint can end up losing a twenty-four-zero game in five seconds.
Because of me.
Multiple players from the team whose name I forgot are barreling for Levi once he’s near the touchdown zone.
The ball moves in painfully slow motion, same goes for Theory jumping up and down like a wild woman next to me.
I check the time on the clock, three seconds.
The ball…I don’t know, maybe feet away.
Clock, two.
Ball… smooth into Levi’s chest.
The crowd goes absolutely insane as the buzzer erupts, signaling the end of the playoffs, a secured championship game, and my ability to fucking breathe again.
Levi spikes the ball and his helmet, doing that howl into the night thing before gunning for his best friend, who’s punching his chest and howling the same. They crash into a hug, both clapping each other on the back before breaking apart.
Theory and I are the much girlier versions of them, squealing through a hug-jump as every member of The Royals charge in the direction of Levi and Saint. Half the crowd from the bleachers, including Theory, follow right after.
The two stars of the show get lost in the swarm of people, making it that much harder for me to find Saint and watch him bask in the victory.
I’m not love drunk enough to assume I’m who Saint’s thinking about after slaying one of the biggest games of the season, or that I have the right to be on the field like Theory or other true devotees to the team.
So, squeezing Saint’s Letterman around me, I drag awkward feet to the sidelines, on the lookout so he can at least know I’m happy for him.
No dice.
That is, until a mountain sized body crashes into me from the left, nearly knocking the wind out of me.
Sweat, dirt, and lingering citrus invades my nostrils as Saint picks me up, spinning me around and kissing me to a stop like his life depends on it.
Every inch of me blasts into a shower of tingles, growing more intense with every second our lips remain connected.
“See, I told you, Jimi.” He smiles through a heaving breath. “You’re my good luck charm.”
After hearing Theory explain the groove situation, I guess I can see where Saint is coming from with the preposterous idea. As preposterous as it may be, though, he believes it, and I believe in him.
“Congratulations, Letterman.” I squeeze my arms around his neck. “You were amazing out there.”
Instead of a thank you, or putting me down, Saint walks us backwards onto the field.
“What are you doing?” I chuckle.
“Getting you off the sidelines.”
With my fingers threading the short, damp hair on the back of his head, I admit, “Just wanted to let you have your moment.”
Saint lets out an amused huff, then, with his soft gaze sharpening, he says, “When will you finally get it, Jimi?”
“Get what?” I laugh, trying to ignore all the eyes I feel watching us.
“That this is my fucking moment.”