Chapter 2 #2
“He invited Sebastian to his party,” Rhys said in a bored tone.
“Leah wouldn’t shut up about it in the car.
‘And then the ballet girl ran into him, and he invited her brother, and she got all—’” he did an impression, pitching his voice up into something breathy and ridiculous that was apparently supposed to be me, “’—okay, yeah, sure, cool. ’”
I wanted the sidewalk to open up and swallow me whole.
“That’s not—I mean, he said I should come too,” I said, aware even as it left my mouth of how thin it sounded out loud, how different two words sounded stripped of the moment they’d been said in.
“I know him, which is more than I can say for you, apparently, since you’re out here memorizing his pitching form like it’s a personality trait.
” He shook his head. “It’s kind of sad, not gonna lie.
You’ve clearly built an entire relationship in your head out of two sentences and a bruised sternum. ”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you nearly broke your nose walking into a door two weeks ago because you were too busy staring at him to look where you were going.” He shrugged, looking unbothered.
I was bewildered by the words, not because the situation hadn’t happened (it was at the dance studio and the only reason I hadn’t fully slammed into the door was because my friend pulled me out of the way in time), but because I had no recollection of Rhys being there, let alone watching me. “That’s not exactly subtle, Ainsley.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
I only knew of him through Sebastian. There was no reason for him to know me. And even if he did somehow know the names of all of his rival’s sisters, how was he one of the only people in the world who could tell me and Imogen apart so easily?
Something flickered across his face—the smallest hitch, gone almost before I registered it—before the smirk slid back into place, smooth as anything. “It’s a small street. Everyone knows everyone’s name. Don’t flatter yourself.”
As if. I’d only moved to Canada six years ago, and by that time, Rhys was already attending Crofton Academy, giving no chances for our paths to cross.
I didn’t know half the people on the street, especially the ones who weren’t the same age as me—like Rhys, who was a year older and in the same grade as my brother and Lavender—and I only knew who he was because of Sebastian.
But the anger was already climbing back up my throat, too hot and fast for me to ignore it and I snapped, “Fine. Then you know I’m Sebastian’s sister, which means you know exactly how much I already can’t stand you.”
“Oh, I’m sure—at least if your brother is anything to go by.” He said it almost cheerfully. He shrugged, looking all too comfortable and innocent. “You know, it’s the highlight of my week every time, getting under his skin. Watching him lose it over one yellow card is better than actual sports.”
“At least I have a personality outside of ruining people’s Friday nights,” I shot back.
“Mm. Says the girl who nearly took my head off with a fist a minute ago.”
“I wish I’d taken your head off. It would spare me from this entire horrible conversation.”
He tilted his head, like he was replaying something specific. “Speaking of taking people’s heads off—last week’s match. The corner kick. Your brother went down like he’d been shot, and you were on your feet screaming before the ref even blew the whistle.”
“I didn’t realize you’d been watching me so closely,” I said drily.
“Hard not to notice a girl screaming like a banshee over her brother’s inability to play soccer.”
I jabbed an accusing finger into his chest before I could think better of touching him. “He’d have scored that penalty if you weren’t such a colossal cheater.”
Rhys’s eyes dipped to my finger, then back up to my eyes, that smug smirk still on his lips. “I didn’t even touch him.”
I throw my hands in the air, effectively ending the contact with him. What a relief. “You’ve never not touched him. You run your mouth the entire ninety minutes and then act shocked when someone snaps.”
“Sounds like a him problem.” Rhys’s smirk widened into a grin.
I hated how much he was enjoying this, hated that some small, traitorous part of me was almost enjoying it too, in the way you enjoy picking at a scab.
“Anger management runs in the family, I guess. Explains the near-assault a minute ago.”
“If you think protecting myself from a serial killer is anger management—”
He scoffed. “Serial killer?”
“A stranger snuck up on me in the dark. What did you expect?”
“Maybe something reasonable, like not getting punched by someone like they’re auditioning for UFC.”
“Reasonable people don’t sneak up on girls at empty fields, but here we are.”
“It’s a public field. You said it yourself. Being outside, wasn’t it?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it, furious that he’d used my own words against me, furious that I didn’t have anything ready to fire back immediately, which had never once been a problem for me in my life until this exact moment, apparently, with this exact person.
“You’re insufferable,” I finally managed.
“I’ve been told.” He said it like a compliment he’d earned. “Usually by girls who like it, though.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would like this.” I gestured at all of him, sweeping my hand up and down in a way I hoped conveyed maximum disdain. “You’re rude, you’re smug, and you’re clearly under the impression that any of this is charming.”
He took a step closer, dipping his chin so that he was a mere few inches from my face. I narrowed my eyes. His voice dropped to something mischievous and grating. “And yet, I’m not the one dating someone only in my mind.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe we should skip the lecture about who’s pathetic, especially since it’s coming from the guy who apparently can’t hold a relationship longer than a soccer season,” I said, throwing his own rhythm back at him, and something about doing that—turning his weapon around in my hand—felt so good I almost smiled.
For a second, neither of us said anything. The only sound was the distant crack of a bat connecting with a ball somewhere behind me, and Rhys’s eyes narrowing.
“Careful,” he said finally, quieter than before, all the teasing bled out of it and something harder underneath. “You don’t actually know me well enough to swing that hard.”
“You didn’t know me well enough to call me pathetic, but that didn’t stop you.”
“Touché.” The word came out clipped, and I had the distinct, satisfying sense that I’d finally, finally gotten under his skin the way he’d spent the last five minutes getting under mine.
Behind him, the field had gone quiet—practice wrapping up, cleats crunching toward the parking lot, and I registered with a fresh spike of horror that Justin was close enough now that if either of us raised our voice one more notch, this entire humiliating exchange was going to have an audience.
Rhys seemed to clock it at the same moment I did. Whatever had flickered hard and unguarded across his face a second ago vanished, replaced by that same annoying ease, like none of the last five minutes had touched him at all.
“Well.” He pushed off the fence post, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. “This has been fun. We should do it again sometime.”
“Hard pass.”
“You’re right. I’d rather pour lemon juice into a papercut.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“Congratulations, by the way.” He was already walking backward toward the parking lot, not even bothering to fully turn around, throwing it over his shoulder with a grin that made my hands curl into fists at my sides all over again.
I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of playing along by asking “for what,” but unfortunately for me, I didn’t have to, because he continued, “Pretty sure that’s the most action that fence has seen all year. ”
“I hope you trip on your way to your car.”
“Noted, Fence Girl.” He started jogging off toward a car I hadn’t even noticed idling at the curb. He threw the last words over his shoulder like he knew I’d still be standing there listening. “Tell your brother I said hi.”
And then he climbed in the car and shut the door, leaving me standing there with my heart going too fast, my face on fire, and one single, absolutely certain thought crystallizing through the wreckage of the last several minutes:
I had never hated anyone as fast, or as thoroughly, as I hated Rhys Montgomery.