Knight
Chapter Two
It’s a miracle I’ve won a single hand when I can’t take my eyes off the guy with the big blue eyes and the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
I’m surprised I can even hold my cards. My thoughts are a jumbled series of oh fuck, holy shit, not this, not now, not here.
The cupcake I ate in one bite lingers in my upset stomach like a fucking canoe in the middle of Lake Superior during a storm, tossing back and forth, capsizing, drowning, then surging back up to break the surface.
Enough people have snuck alcohol into this dumb game night that an hour into it, there’s a lot more laughter and chattering. Since I don’t drink during the season, the increased noise around me isn’t helping me do anything but get more unnerved.
But Jesus Christ, when that guy smiles, he’s fucking radiant. He’s got these gorgeous lips that stretch over perfect teeth and two deep dimples—deeper than my own small one—that are making me sweat. I might as well be drinking for how hard it is to focus on anything but him.
He hasn’t looked at me again since that first time before everyone sat down, and that’s definitely a good thing.
He’s probably not like me. Or if he is, I’m not his type, and that’s a good thing, too.
I wish I didn’t feel like I needed to know which.
I wish I had the ability to stop myself from trying to find out everything I can about him, but single-mindedness is both my greatest strength and greatest weakness.
Helpful in football and in a classroom, but stupidly annoying when it comes to shit like this. Shit I shouldn’t have on my mind ever.
I need to meet him, and it looks like I’m going to as we both keep advancing in the winner’s bracket and moving toward the south side of the room, closer to the windows overlooking campus.
He’s at the table next to me in the final rounds.
The lack of control I have over a hand of UNO is irritating to the point where my knee is bouncing restlessly, and I keep sneaking glances at his game.
He looks like he’s having fun. I mean, I don’t know him, have somehow not managed to meet him yet in this weird mixer, but inevitably we’re all getting to know each other.
If it weren’t for him, I might be enjoying this, but currently it feels more like waiting in line to meet a fucking celebrity, and I’m his number one fan with a full-blown parasocial relationship, expectations, and everything.
I hope he hates me. I hope that if I wind up sitting next to him or across from him at the final table, he treats me like trash. Like a dumb jock. Like I smell foul and look hideous.
My roommate Rodrigo, a tight end from Miami, plays a green eight, and it’s my turn. I look down at the two remaining cards in my hand. An eight and a Skip. Laying down the eight, I say, “UNO.”
Rodrigo and the other guys I’m with—Tate and Jimmy, both not on the team—release a collective sigh.
Rod has at least seven cards, but the other two are getting down to their last few. Because of the special cards, I can’t just show them my skip and put them out of their misery. For all I know my roommate might play a Take Four on me, but he looks decently defeated.
My knee bounces faster. No one uses a strategy to keep me from winning, and I play my Skip, winning the game at the same time the way too gorgeous guy plays his second to last card. I turn in my seat to watch the rest of their game and study him.
There has to be something wrong with him. He’s not normal looking. Now that I’m closer up, I can pick his weird face apart and hope this band of tension around my chest loosens up.
His features are large—bordering on exaggerated.
But that would only be off-putting if it were just his eyes or nose.
In his case, he’s got the trifecta. Big eyes, big nose, big lips that cover a full mouth of teeth, making his mouth protrude slightly from the rest of his face, but it works out because his cheekbones are high and broad, perfectly balanced with the square of his smooth-shaven jaw.
He’s got the slight build of someone who does a lot of cardio, but not like an athlete unless he runs track. Sitting between the twins, he looks small, but I’ve seen him move through the room. He’s not short.
His hair should bug me. I really, really want his hair to bug me. It’s long. Not to his shoulders but slightly past his chin. It’s thick, and a plain, dark blond. Not as dark as his eyebrows, but that somehow works, too. If he told me he was a model, I’d also believe that.
When he laughs at something one of the twins says, it’s a low noise that rumbles before it starts to break up into a higher pitch.
All I’m seeing now is a gorgeous guy who knows how to have a good time, and that shit is not helping.
Dillon skips him on the next turn, prolonging the game, and I get up, too sick to my stomach to eat, but about to knock the table over with my restless knee. I loom over the four of them, and a whiff of Jack Daniels hits me.
Gabe checks in with our table as the game finishes up. He jots the rankings on his bracket and offers me a fist bump. “Way to go, Winters.”
Trying to act like I’m invested in this tournament, I ask, “Any hints on the grand prize?”
He grins. “Now don’t go getting ahead of yourself.”
“I’d just like to know what I’m playing for. Keep myself motivated.”
“I’m not sure I have anything that’ll impress half you guys, but it doesn’t suck.”
I’m distracted once again by a high five and another laugh. He’s won. Good.
I need to get this over with.
Now I just need to decide how I want to act.
If I’m a dick, which violates Gabe’s rules and also isn’t who I am as a person, it won’t really count if he hates me.
If I’m a hundred percent myself, I won’t say a word and therefore won’t get the information I’m craving.
I need to strike a balance. I need to be the homecoming king.
Soon enough, Gabe has two tables designated, and he’s calling over the winner of the loser’s bracket. The winners bracket consists of Tyson, then me, Deandre, and Sullivan.
Sullivan? Sully? Really? I know I’m not one to talk about having a weird name, but the last thing this guy looks like is a Sully.
Everyone else has met as we sit, so I hold out my hand to introduce myself. “Knight Winters.”
“Sullivan Scott.”
He puts his hand in mine, and yeah, I guess there’s a jolt or whatever.
I was expecting that. I don’t touch attractive men all that often.
His handshake is firm, but what I notice more than that are his fingers.
I have big hands, but his fingers are really long, wrapping my hand up like it’s nothing.
“Do people call you—?”
He gives a quick, sharp shake of his head. “Sullivan.”
“Got it.” So, he’s not a Sully. Good.
We take our seats, and I ask, “Where are you from? I already know these guys.”
“Michigan.”
“Yeah? Whereabout? I’m from up North.”
His brows lift as Tyson shuffles the big deck. “Uh, yeah. Me too. You probably wouldn’t have heard of my town, though.”
I shrug like try me.
“Sunrise Point.”
I frown. He’s got to be kidding. No one has ever heard of Sunrise Point. I laugh. “My reputation precedes me.”
“How’s that?”
“Sunrise Point? My hometown?” I say.
He scoffs. “No, it’s not.”
“It is, actually.”
He shakes his fucking perfect head. “There’s one high school there. You didn’t go to it.”
“Well, no. I went to high school in Saginaw for football, but my family lives in Sunrise Point.”
“No, they don’t,” he says dismissively as he cuts the cards Ty slides his direction.
I half laugh. “I’m pretty sure we do.”
“I feel like I would have known that.”
“We live down by the lake. My mom’s a realtor there and everything.”
His dark blue eyes suspiciously narrow. “What does your dad do?”
A loud laugh goes up from the football players. Someone calls out, “You don’t know who his dad is?”
I’m lucky I have such a good tan from summer training because my face heats.
Sullivan glances around, his eyes wide and interested. “Wait, seriously. Who’s your dad?”
I force a smirk. “You don’t watch football. Do you?”
He gives a careless shrug. “I’m not much of a sports person.”
“Then you wouldn’t know,” I say.
Tyson deals the cards, and he glances at me with a slight grin.
“What kind of person are you then?” I ask.
“More of a music person.”
“Huh.” Now I have even more questions.
“So, who’s your dad?” he asks before I can start my interrogation.
“Oh. Eric Winters. He does color commentary for NFL games. He’s on TV a lot.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, I wouldn’t know him, then. I don’t watch much TV, either.”
“He also won four Super Bowls,” Tyson offers.
“Yeah?” Sullivan asks Ty like they’re old friends.
Tyson nods as he deals the last card and sets the stack in the center of the table. “He’s a legend.”
“I do know what the Super Bowl is,” Sullivan says. Everyone listening laughs, causing the dimples in his cheeks to deepen.
My skin is tight all over. It itches from the thought that these people know him better than I do.
Yeah, sure, it’s been all of three hours, and we’ve had nothing to do but shoot the shit across various card tables while we play a relatively mindless game over and over again, but I want to know what they know. “So, you’re a music major?”
Sullivan looks up from organizing his cards, and his overwhelming eyes meet mine. He nods subtly.
“Why?” I press.
“Why?” he asks like it’s an insane question, and it probably is.
“Yeah. What do you do with a music major?”
“What’s your major?” he asks instead.
I scowl, and a light scoff leaves my mouth. Why is he making this impossible? “Football.”
Everyone laughs.
“Marketing,” I add.
“Why?”