10. Caleb
Chapter 10
Caleb
I transferred into this math class this morning. Liam told me she was in it with him, and I couldn’t resist. Not after last night.
Damn girl has a magic mouth.
How many guys has she blown?
And why do I want to kill all of them?
But anyway—this math class is pretty much the same as the one I was in, but I just wanted to fix my schedule to get maximum Margo time. She’s always thrown when I show up, seeming caught between scared and excited.
Isn’t that funny? She thinks she can wreck my family and then be happy to see me.
The teacher is a balding man in his seventies. I don’t know him personally—haven’t had the pleasure of taking a class of his—but he scans the slip from my guidance counselor and gruffly waves me into the room.
Late or not, I suppose it doesn’t matter.
I pick the chair next to Liam’s, and we bump fists. There’s rustling of paper as my classmates pull out notebooks and folders, pencils, textbooks. I don’t even have a bag with me, just a single notebook and pen.
People who do math with pencils just don’t know how to commit.
Mr. McGuire drops off a textbook at my desk. He ambles to the front of the room just in time for Margo to enter. Her face is redder than when I left, her eyes bloodshot. Her makeup—which is always too intense, in my opinion—has smeared some under her eyes.
Oh, no. Did I make the poor little lamb cry?
I lean back in my chair, kicking out my legs. My feet extend under the chair in front of me. The open desk that I’d bet she’s going to take.
Liam eyes me, his brows pulling down, but I ignore him.
Mr. McGuire gives her a bit of a hard time for being late without a pass, and I catch the word restroom . Little lamb knows how to lie, then.
That’s expected.
She looks around the room, and her gaze settles on me. I meet it with a raised eyebrow. A silent, Well? She takes the seat in front of me, and I lift my foot until my toe touches the bottom of her seat.
I kick it gently. Just a tiny thump, and she jolts.
She’s got to be turned on by me. By that BJ last night, sure, but also… I’m pretty confident I can smell her arousal whenever I get close enough. She’s just too prim and proper to say anything.
And the worst thing is that she’s wearing pants. It’s definitely because of that text I sent this morning about the skirt… but that’s just because I’m an asshole, and I jacked myself off to the memory of her mouth as soon as I got into bed that night.
Fortunately for me, her uniform pants hug her ass and create an entirely new picture.
She was mostly sitting when I found her in the mall food court. Her jeans didn’t accentuate anything , and I didn’t exactly stand behind her.
Anyway, all that to say, I’m not mad about the pants.
There will be time later to talk her into skirts. Or, if she doesn’t acquiesce on her own, to blackmail her into it.
A cheerleader next to her, in front of Liam, shoots her a look and leans away. Her nose wrinkles, as if Margo smells, and I chuckle.
I was actually starting to like her for a second there. A spark of the old Margo had come through, and the innocent child in me had risen to her call.
For a while, we were happy, carefree kids. Inseparable, even.
Imagine that, knowing how far we’ve come.
Mr. McGuire starts explaining a new formula. We did this same exact thing the week prior, so I zone out and spend the rest of class staring at the back of her head.
What’s going on in that little brain of hers? What will the next bomb she’ll drop be?
A game . Playing games with her is almost as fun as hockey. Kiss her and see when she’ll give in to me. Kiss her enemy and wait for her flinch. Fuck her where?—
“Dude.” Liam jostles my arm. “Class is over.”
I shake my head, banishing thoughts. Margo is gone, as is half the class. Even Mr. McGuire has packed up and left the room, leaving Liam and I alone.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I get up, taking the textbook with me.
“Because…”
I raise my eyebrow. “Spit it out, why don’t you.”
He groans. “Don’t punch me for this shit, okay? But what’s your issue?”
“With Margo?”
He throws up his hands. “You’re on a first-name basis with her? That’s fucked up, man. You won’t even tell us why you hate her so much.”
Irrational possessiveness overtakes me. The fact that he wants to know about Margo? Bad . He shouldn’t even be looking at her, much less saying her name.
Wait. He didn’t say her name.
But he implied it.
I glower at him. All my secrets surrounding Margo are locked up tight. There is no risk of them slipping out—but I might deck my best friend.
Liam and I are the fighters of our group. We’re the two with the most friction and the most likely to end up playing a game of testosterone chicken. We’re also too reckless to get out of the way when we should… which means we crash more often than not.
Our other two friends, Eli and Theo, balance us out.
But seeing as they’re not here, and I’m itching for a fight, I throw back my shoulders. “I don’t need to tell you why .”
“You can’t fight every battle on your own.”
“What?” I square up to him in the hallway.
Even though it’s packed and we’re between periods, students automatically veer around us without making contact.
Liam and I are an even match. Coach sometimes puts us on opposite teams for practice to keep things fair. Although since we play on the same line, we do practice together . Scrimmages or not.
I’m a center, Liam is a left wing. Eli is our right wing, and Theo plays left defense. When we’re all on the same page—together with Ian, Theo’s partner on defense—it’s magic.
But right now, I want to throttle him.
He’s almost the same height as me—an inch shorter, if that. Around the same build. If not for the wildly different features, people might think we’re related. His hair light, mine dark. His skin golden to my paler complexion. Hazel eyes contrasting my blue.
Minus the fact that I play hockey better than him, we could be carbon copies.
“Get out of my fucking face, asshole.” He shoves me.
I rock back a few steps and put some distance between us. He shakes out his arms, reading me well. I’ve been needing an outlet for ages now. Even since before Margo showed up, I’ve been bottling my emotions. At hockey practice, I’ve been restrained. With her, I’ve showed control.
Now, it’s all about to explode outward.
I crack my neck and grin. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”
His smile is just as unhinged. “Ready to get your ass beat? Bring it.”
I lunge for him and land the first punch. His head snaps back at the impact, absorbing the blow with a sneer. Blood drips from his nose, over his top lip. His tongue flicks out, tasting it, and a switch flips inside him.
Game on.
Classmates make space for us, some jeering while girls down the hall scream. My blood pumps hotter, faster.
Liam and I dance around each other, maneuvering for the best angle. He strikes fast, his fist coming out of nowhere. His knuckles glance off my cheekbone, and pain spikes through my face.
More.
I dive for him, a tackle better made for a football player than me, and we go down. We roll, trading punches, until I end up on top. Hands grasp at the back of my shirt. I almost shrug them off, but their grip tightens. I’m lifted bodily off of Liam and slammed face-first into a locker.
Fuck.
Ow.
Only one person in the school is strong enough to do that.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say against the metal, ignoring the bite of pain where Liam hit me.
Coach’s grip on my neck doesn’t soften. “You think a sorry will cover this mess? In my office before practice. Both of you .”
And then he’s gone. The crowd parts for him, most students jumping out of the way to avoid his ire. He’s as much of a legend as the rest of us, honestly. He went to Emery-Rose when he was in high school and captained the hockey team for three years. He led them to two championship titles.
The main takeaway from his accolades: he’s not someone to disappoint or piss off, and we singlehandedly did both.
The disgust in his voice spears through me.
I push myself off the locker and offer my hand to Liam. He takes it, and I haul him up. We both look in the direction Coach left.
“Damn,” Liam mutters. “He’s going to take it out on us with drills, isn’t he?”
I sigh. “I don’t even want to fucking think about it.”
He brushes under his nose, smearing blood, and then glances at me. “I got you good. Split lip.”
I laugh, touching it. “Better than my eyes swollen shut. Have fun with that at practice.”
He grimaces. “Fuck you.”
We part ways, me headed for my third class of the day with Margo Wolfe, and him who fucking knows where.
And I feel exponentially better—and worse.