Five things, p.8
Five Things, page 8
“What the hell are you talking about?” she demands, pushing my hand away.
A dry laugh falls past my lips, and I sigh. “What other possible reason do you have to slut shame another girl? Your taunts are juvenile and petty and say far more about you than they ever could me.”
“At least I don’t need to do beg for someone to fuck me.” She scoffs.
“Hmm.” I open the app, scrolling through the numerous comments. “‘Please, baby, let me come on your tits. Yes, please, I’ll fuck that pussy so sweet.’ Doesn’t look like I’m the one begging, does it?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“No, I don’t think I should.” Grabbing my bag, I shove my phone back into it, zipping it up before tossing it over my shoulder as the class filters out. “But maybe you should take a look in the mirror.”
“He’ll never fuck you, you know,” she snaps, standing and blocking my way. She lets her eyes run over the length of me, my oversized hoodie and black leggings paling in comparison to the tight jeans and corset style crop top she wears. “There are rumors that you came here for Maverick Brady. But just know he doesn’t go for whores.”
“Oh, honey.” I chuckle, ignoring the sting that follows her words. That is one rumor I haven’t heard yet, but—considering the things Maverick has said—it’s not surprising he’d stoop low enough in his efforts to get rid of me. Just like the post today. I’ve no doubts it’s his handiwork. “If you want Maverick, he’s all yours. Though he’s never really been one to go for women without a brain cell, but hey, there’s a first for everything, right?”
I push past her, leaving her standing slack jawed in the center of the aisle. She makes no move to correct my assumption, nor to call anything out after me, and a flood of satisfaction washes over me.
I’ve never been the girl to stand up for myself. Always slinking in the background, taking what anyone offers with a smile on my face. But I won’t pretend it doesn’t feel good.
The more Maverick pushes, the harder I want to push back. Something about his fight, his anger, fuels me to want to prove myself not only to him but to me. For the first time in years, I’m realizing I don’t need anybody else to fight my battles for me and that feels really fucking good.
Maverick
“You really dropped the ball on that one.” Nash laughs when he drops down beside me on the couch, shoving a beer into my hand. While he sips from his bottle, he scrolls through the notifications on the “company wanted” ad on Beatrice’s bulletin, kindly reading his favorite ones out loud.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, that’s why every time your phone pings with a new notification you look about ready to throw it at the wall and rush off to strangle someone. Why can’t you admit it, bro?”
“Admit what?”
“That the thought of another guy going for Bea is eating you up inside,” he answers, leaning forward and dropping his phone face up on the counter. The new messages popping up in real time have me fighting the urge to take my beer bottle to his screen.
“You’re deluded,” I tell him instead, leaning back and tipping the beer to my lips.
“Uh-huh.” He flicks through the channels, landing on Anchorman before he settles into the couch. “What happens if she takes someone up on their offer?”
“She won’t!”
“Wait, did he just growl?” Beck asks, joining in with Nash’s laughter as he settles in on the armchair. “I thought dudes only did that in the books my sister reads.”
“I didn’t fucking growl.” Shoving off the couch, I finish the beer before tossing it into the trash can and grabbing my gym bag from the counter. I reach the door, ignoring my friends as they continue to rib the shit out of me.
I open the door and step back the moment a fist lands on my chest, a tiny squeak following. “Shit, sorry. I, er, I didn’t.” Beatrice pulls away, her eyes wide with worry as she drops her gaze to the floor and brings her thumb up to her mouth, chewing on the skin while worry lines wrinkle her forehead.
For some stupid reason, unbeknownst to me, I hate that look on her face. Especially directed toward me. Sure, I want her to fucking leave so she can stop messing with my head and let me get back to my perfectly crafted life, but the last thing I would ever want from her is her fear.
Reaching out, I tug gently at her hand, watching as the bead of blood forming at her thumb, from where she’s peeled away the skin around her nail, drops onto my palm. I fucking hate it.
“It’s fine, Bumblebee,” I mumble, pointing my thumb over my shoulder with a sigh. “If you’re here for Nash, he’s in there.”
Her nose wrinkles, her lips downturned. It’s another moment before she looks back up to me, her expression harder than before. “Actually, I’m here for you.” She shoves her phone into my chest. “Remove it. Now!”
The fire pouring off her in waves awakens my dick in an instant. I don’t know what it is about this Beatrice, the one who talks back, who doesn’t bow under my reign, that makes me feel so fucking alive . . . but I don’t like it.
“Remove what?” I ask, a smirk tickling my lips.
“Don’t play dumb, Mav. It doesn’t suit you.” She steps into me, crowding into my space for once, rather than the other way around. My feet move out of instinct, needing to put some space between us, but she doesn’t stop.
In less than a second, I find myself back in my apartment, my friends watching in rapt silence as Beatrice closes the door behind her, mumbling a hello to them before reeling off a series of numbers. “Zero, nine, one, five. Now delete it. Permanently.”
Those numbers. There’s something about them, so familiar, but I can’t place why. Instead of wasting time thinking on it, I unlock her phone.
My teeth clench with each message that pops up on the screen, each more degrading than the last. Some are guys offering her their services, but many are from chicks, calling her all kinds of vile names, and in that instant, I feel like a real piece of shit.
I never intended for it to turn into a free-for-all, I just wanted a few people to message her shit, not offer their fucking dicks as company to her.
Clearing all the notifications so I don’t have to see them, I open up the bulletin app and delete the message, making myself a silent promise that I’ll put a stop to every single person reaching out to her . . . though, I’m not telling her that.
All it means is I need to change tactics where she’s concerned. This is between Beatrice and me, and getting other people involved is obviously not the way to go, because the two times I’ve tried, she’s come back stronger, and I’ve felt nothing but guilt after.
When I pass it back, she mutters a “Thank you” before spinning on her heel and grabbing the door handle. My hand presses against the wood before she can open it, my chest flush to her back as I lean in.
“Delete the messages, Bumblebee,” I demand, my hand going to her hip. She heaves in a slow breath, her body heat rising beneath the washed gray cotton. “And if you’re even thinking of taking one of those guys up on their offer, think again.”
She tips her head back, resting it against my chest as she flicks her eyes to mine. There’s a satisfied grin on her lips and danger in her eyes as she opens her mouth. “Too late. But thanks for the warning, Mav.” Without another word, she pushes down on the handle, forcing me to step back as she tugs the door open and walks from my apartment, her hips swaying with each step.
“Oh, man.” Gray guffaws, coming to stand next to me with his arm tossed over my shoulders. “You are so fucked.”
Chapter Ten
Beatrice
Over the next week, the texts die down and the taunts slow. Though a few continue—mostly girls, I’ve noticed. And each one slowly chips away at the walls I’ve erected over my heart.
It’s not so much the words they use—I’ve heard them all before—it’s the fact they’ve made a snap judgment about me, all because of someone else, and that reminds me too much of the past I long to put behind me.
Maybe that’s Maverick’s grand plan, dredging up enough memories to attack my self-confidence that eventually I’ll walk, though I don’t think it is, not really. Call me naïve, but he didn’t like the messages he saw pop up on my phone while it was in his hand, nor the idea of me replying to one of the many guys offering up their services.
A wide smile takes over my face then. The way his hand molded to my hip, his warning a whisper in my ear. I have no plans to follow up on the lie I told him, but it’s the only thing that’s kept me pushing through this week. Getting under his skin lights a fire inside me, because I know he’s as affected as I am by whatever’s between us.
Maisie fields yet another comment slung my way as we enter the Bean Bar—the coffee shop on campus—but I wave her away. Fighting back is something I’m quickly learning I’m good at, even when the words hurt.
“Don’t waste your breath, Mais,” I tell her, fanning the hem of my tee. Having grown up in California, I’m well-adjusted to the heat, but the AC on campus has been playing up the past few days so sweat drips off me.
“We need to get you some new tops,” Maisie says, handing me an iced coffee. It’s very much welcomed right now. She must notice the panic in my eyes, as she quickly shakes her head, placating me. “Nothing that would make you uncomfortable, but Bea, you’re sweating your tits off, literally.”
“It’s just so warm,” I groan into my glass, propping myself up against the counter while she waits for our food.
“We can go after your last class? You finish at three, right?” Nodding, I grab the sandwich from her outstretched hand, tearing the paper apart before taking a bite. The ham and cheese melts in my mouth as my stomach growls because I haven’t eaten anything today since I overslept. “We can hit up the mall, then be back in time to head over to the game.”
The bread I’m chewing gets stuck in my throat as I swallow too quickly. Maisie snatches the coffee and sandwich from my hand before they can land on the tile floor, placing them on the counter. She whacks me on the back a few times, her eyes growing wide with panic as a few others catch on to the fact I’m choking.
When it comes unstuck and I can breathe again, I shrink into myself, a violent heat rushing up my neck and covering my cheeks. If I could stop embarrassing myself, that would be wonderful.
Grabbing my food and drink, I keep my head down and rush out the door knowing Maisie will follow me. I find a bench outside, tucked around the corner, and plonk down, groaning into the wood as I rest my head.
“Game?” I ask when Maisie joins me, her hand rubbing gentle circles on my back.
“Should have mentioned that before, huh?” She chuckles, doing her best to look sheepish when I flick my eyes to her. “I figured I could just kinda drop it into conversation and you wouldn’t notice. I didn’t expect you to try and kill yourself with a sandwich over the tiny detail.”
“Do you even like football?”
“Ma’am.” She gasps, side-eyeing me as I raise a brow at her. “I have two older brothers, what do you take me for? Don’t you dare ask that question when you meet them. In fact, that day, you’re the biggest football fan alive, otherwise they may just boot you out the house.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she echoes, peeling open her sandwich. “Friday night football is basically like Sunday mass in our house. It’s mandatory, and every member of the family is expected to show up if they’re in town.”
“You miss it, don’t you?” I ask, not missing the twinge of sadness that lingers in her voice.
“Yeah, which is why I’m really hoping you’ll do me a solid and be the bestest friend ever and come to the game with me tonight. We can sit way in the back and skip all the after-parties. Then I’ll come back to your dorm, and we can have a sleepover with all the cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies you want.”
“Wait, what?” I squeak, thoroughly confused.
“What? I was scrolling through your laptop when you were in the shower the other day and saw all the films you had saved. Almost every single one was Christmas related.”
“Dude,” I huff, nudging her in the arm, though I’m really not bothered, and she’s absolutely correct. There’s nothing better than watching Christmas films, no matter what time of year it is.
She gives me her best puppy-dog eyes, pleading that I agree, and I sigh. “Fine, but I’m choosing the snacks.”
“Deal.” She slaps her hand against mine before turning away and digging into her lunch, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Maverick
There is nothing more exhilarating than the sound of a hyped-up crowd roaring your name as you step out onto the open field. My body tingles with excitement, my fingers itching to get around the ball, and my legs bursting with the need to run.
Nash claps me on the shoulder, his helmet tucked under his other arm as he glances over at the packed bleachers. “First game, QB. How are you feeling?”
“Like we’re going to win this thing.”
“Too fucking right.” He smirks, turning around and walking backward to where Coach waits. “Let’s do this shit!”
I echo his sentiments, following him. Football is one of my lifelines. Even when I was locked up, I spent many days in the yard with a ball in my hand, keeping my game up and my mind sane. Without it, there’s no way I’d have survived the year.
Coach Jenkins nods at me when I reach him, a silent question in his eyes. Nodding at him, a familiar determination rushes me. I’ve got this. The first couple practices may have gone down like a turd, but as the weeks have drawn out, I’ve fallen back in my groove. It helps that I’ve spent most of my time tucked away in my bedroom, avoiding Beatrice at every turn.
Her words from that day in my apartment have consumed me. Wondering if she’s being for real and is planning to take one of the many dudes up on their offers, and if so, who?
The guys find the whole thing funny, and even Nash has taken to asking me to keep trying to get rid of her, if only to see her hand me my ass yet again. The issue is, I’m coming up empty.
The taunts she receives, I hate. Anyone hurting her to get her to leave is an absolute nonstarter. And aside from following her around like a lost puppy, begging her to please go and let me get back to my calm life, I’ve got nothing.
“Right, guys, first game,” Coach starts, pulling us all into a huddle. “Maverick, you’re up, don’t let us down. We’ve got a good team this year, possibly our best on record. But it only works if you do. So heads in the game. The championship is calling our names, and we’re going to take it, come hell or high water. So, are you ready?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach” rings out around us, and I can feel myself getting high off the anticipation.
Making our way to the center of the field, we get into position as the crowd chants our anthem. A massive grin breaks on my face as my eyes travel over them, pausing when I see two girls sitting there, one I never thought I’d get to see at my games again.
She looks so small, tucked up into the bleachers, her hands playing with the hem of her sweater. Her head snaps up, finding my gaze in an instant, and her lips flicker, a whisper of something I haven’t seen for years passing over them before she schools her expression.
The image stirs something inside me, memories of the times she used to come watch me play back in high school. Knowing she was there, I used to put on a show—the smug shit I was—just for her.
She’d always laugh when she found me afterward, smiling widely as I’d hoist her into my arms, swinging her around before dropping a kiss to her forehead and setting her free.
That was before Sebastian.
Before she eventually stopped showing up to my games.
She was always my good luck charm back then and the only reason I took the game seriously. It wasn’t my talent on the field, or with a ball, it was because of her. Because she believed in my skill. She believed in me.
So much has changed since those days, but when I see the way her legs tremble in excitement, and her fingers dance excitedly over her thighs, I know this much hasn’t.
She still believes in me, out here at least, and tonight I want to show her she still has a reason to do so. Tomorrow we can go back to being strangers, and I can go back to finding a way to get her out of my life.
But tonight . . . for sixty minutes, we can be those two kids again, the ones who believed anything was possible as long as we had each other.
Chapter Eleven
Beatrice
My heart races as Maverick runs across the length of the field, my thighs bouncing. Football has always been a sport that got my blood pumping, or maybe it was just him. The way he commands the field as though it’s his own personal arena.
His arm springs back, the ball whizzing through the air the moment he sets it free. I tell myself to follow it, to watch the game as it plays out, but the only thing I can see is him.
His jersey clings to his skin, the fifteen plastered on the back staring right at me as he runs down the field. He’s been wearing that same number since the day he played his first high school game. That was the day I knew he’d one day play for real and make something of himself.
September fifteenth.
I saw it then, a future laid out for the boy I called my best friend. Handed the number fifteen, on the fifteenth. It was as if fate was staring down at him, calling for him to follow.
I thought he’d figured me out when I read out my phone pin to him, his eyes assessed me for a moment, but he shrugged it away. Maybe that day didn’t mean as much to him as it did me.
