Chapter Seven
Maisie
“Hey.” Lana sits up in her bunk when I push my way inside our dorm room, still so angry it feels like steam is coming out of my ears.
I can’t believe that asshole... I can’t believe he all but called me a whore. Then again, I don’t know why I can’t believe it. It’s so like Macallan to push my buttons like that. To make me feel somehow less than him, even though he’s more of a whore than I will ever be.
Fucking dickhole.
I drop my bag with a loud thump before collapsing into my desk chair.
“You good?” Lana hitches a brow at me, and even though she greeted me upon entry, I’ve just now seemed to realize that I’m not alone.
“Define good,” I grumble, kicking off my shoes.
“Something happen?”
While things are much better between me and Lana, I still wouldn’t go as far as to call her a friend. I mean, sure, we had a lot of fun together the night of the party, but we were also both drunk, which definitely made a difference.
“Oh, you know, just your darling ex making my life a living hell.”
“Macallan?” She sits up straighter. “Why? What’d he do?”
“Remember how I told you that we were assigned as lab partners?” She nods stiffly, so I continue.
“Well, he showed up today completely unprepared, basically called me a slut, and then insinuated that the reason I don’t like him is because I’m desperate to fuck him again.
” I say the last part apologetically. She was his girlfriend at one point, after all.
“He did what?”
“Yeah, I know, right?” I throw my hands up in frustration. “Can you believe the nerve?”
“So what did you do?”
“I told him to go fuck himself and left.”
“What about your project?”
“At this point, I don’t even care. I’ll do the whole damn thing myself and put both of our names on it if I have to. I can’t fail this assignment, but I also refuse to work with someone who doesn’t know how to be serious for five fucking minutes.”
“He really got to you.” She observes, a hint of something in her voice I can’t quite place.
“You think?” I snort out a humorless laugh.
“What he said... it’s not true, right?”
“Huh?” I meet her brown eyes, not bothering to hide my confusion.
“You don’t want to fuck him, do you?”
“What? God, no!” My voice bounces off the walls of the tiny room, reverberating back to me. “Do I look like I want to fuck him? More like stab his fucking eyeballs out.”
“You know...” Lana throws her legs over the side of her bunk before using the ladder to lower herself to the ground. “We could pay him back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Payback. I think it’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine, don’t you?”
“What do you suggest?”
“There’s a big party next weekend, correct?”
“Same as every family weekend.” I nod, grateful that my family isn’t coming this year. It’s kind of pointless given that they live so close and I see them all the time. Though I guess Jackson may decide to tag along to hang out with Kai if nothing else. “Why?”
“What better way to put on a show than with an audience.”
“Okayyyy,” I draw out, hoping she gets to the point soon.
“Just wear something sexy and leave the rest to me.” She slips on her shoes and heads toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask, a little bewildered by her behavior.
“I have to see a friend about something. Just trust me. We’re going to make Macallan Stewart rue the day he ever let either of us get away.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“You’ll see.” She tugs open the door, giving me a wave over her shoulder as she disappears into the hallway.
“What a strange girl,” I murmur to myself, trying to shake off the reminiscence of this day, which clings to my skin like a thin layer of dirt that I can’t wipe off no matter how hard I try.
Leaning over, I fish my phone out of my bag to text Char and Lyric, but completely forget about that the second I see multiple text messages displayed on my lock screen. Every single one from Macallan.
“Really, asshole,” I say out loud, unlocking my phone before opening our text thread.
The first one had to have come through before I had even left the stadium.
Mac: I’m sorry for what I said.
Mac: I’m an asshole.
Mac: There’s no excuse.
Mac: Can we start over?
Mac: We have to work together. It would be nice if we could get along.
Mac: Can we meet tomorrow? Same time and place? I promise to be prepared.
Start over?
Seriously...
He knows even less about women than I thought.
Then again, at least he’s making an effort.
A poor as shit effort, but one nonetheless.
And if he’s big enough to extend the olive branch, the least I can do is reach out and take it.
I don’t have to like him. But he’s right, we do have to work together.
And if things go the way they went today, I don’t see us accomplishing much of anything, outside of maybe killing each other.
Me: Same time and place. Don’t be late.
I shoot off the message before opening my contacts and clicking on Charlotte’s name. If there’s anyone who can talk me down, it’s usually Lyric. But right now, I don’t want to be talked down. I want to vent. And there’s no better person than Char for such a task.
I’m sitting in the stands, in the exact same spot as yesterday, when Macallan exits onto the field from the locker room.
I didn’t come as early today. As much as I enjoyed watching him on the field yesterday—which I would never admit to anyone, not even Char, who I spent nearly an hour venting to last night—I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of doing so a second time.
Instead, I’ve decided to follow Charlotte’s advice. Be neutral. Treat him the way I would any other lab partner I would have been assigned to. I like to think I’m mature enough to be capable of such a thing, but as I watch him climb the stairs toward me, I’m having some major doubts.
Like yesterday, his hair is still damp from the shower, little droplets of water peppering the shoulders of his white T-shirt that become visible only as he reaches me.
The shirt is fitted, showing off his thick bicep muscles, broad shoulders, and chest. Partnered with black joggers and a pair of white sneakers, he looks every bit the gorgeous athlete that he is.
It shouldn’t catch me off guard as much as it does, and yet, I find myself momentarily taken by his beauty.
The trance immediately disappears the second he opens his mouth, and I’m grateful to be brought back to the land of reality.
“Five minutes to spare.” He grins, tapping his wrist before once again taking the seat to my right.
I narrow my gaze at him, daring him to start his shit. Thankfully for both of us, he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out a stack of index cards from his pocket before settling back in his chair, crossing a leg over his opposite knee.
“Would you like to start or shall I?” he asks, flipping through the cards, presumably to make sure they’re all in order.
“I will, if that’s okay with you.” I open my bag and retrieve my own cards.
“By all means.” He gestures for me to go ahead.
“Very well. Would you like to start with colors and shapes or numbers?”
“Numbers.”
“Okay.” I separate the numbered cards from the rest of the pile, shifting in my seat so that I’m facing him. “You don’t have to say anything. Just study the cards and try to remember which order I showed them to you.”
I flip through the cards slowly, giving him enough time to commit the number to memory before moving on to the next. Once I’ve gotten through all fifteen, I lower the stack into my lap.
“Now repeat them in the order in which I showed them,” I instruct, opening my notebook so I can write down his answers.
He rambles off the numbers with ease, and it isn’t until I’ve written them all down and then reviewed the order in which I showed them to him that I realize he got every single one right.
“No way.” I double- and then triple-check my work before finally looking back up at him. “You got all fifteen right.”
“Why do you seem surprised?” A semblance of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Because I am,” I say almost apologetically, though I don’t feel sorry for saying it in the least.
“You forget I have to memorize an entire playbook. Fifteen numbers is nothing.”
“Impressive.” I allow myself to admit.
“Thanks.” He drops his foot from his knee, shifting slightly toward me. “Should we do the colors and shapes next?”
“Yeah.” I close my notebook, setting aside the numbered cards before retrieving the ones with colors and shapes scribbled onto them. I may have done them half in the dark because Lana was sleeping, but they’re good enough to do the trick.
Like before, I show him each individual card, and when I’m done, I open my notebook and take down his answers. As I did with the numbers, I double- and then triple-check my work when I see that he again got every single one correct.
“Well, how did I do?” he asks when I’m still staring at the results several moments later.
“You got them all right.” I look up to find his gaze locked on me, and I squirm a little in my seat, even though I despise my body’s reaction to him. It’s involuntary. I can promise you that.
“Of course I did.” It’s not boastful or cocky, just a simple acknowledgment. “Your turn,” he tells me, dividing his own cards.
We start with the numbers. I get the first twelve right and then stumble on the thirteenth. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t gloat or rub it in that he got more right than me.
I’m even worse at the colors and shapes, only getting six right before my mind goes completely blank. I don’t know if it’s just that I have a bad short-term memory or if it’s because Macallan is staring at me with this quiet intensity that I’m not used to, and it’s messing with my ability to focus.
Either way, I’m happy to call it a day after less than an hour, standing the instant I slip my things back into my bag.