by McKinley May
“Towels in the car. Smart move. Thanks,” she says as she starts patting down her arms.
“I have about ten more where these came from. You would too if you had stinky, sweaty guys constantly hitching rides with you, trying to get dirt and perspiration all over your damn leather seats.”
“Nasty. Make them walk home next time,” she jokes.
I press the towel to my face, wiping away the water. When I remove it, I can’t help but notice Rayne drying off in front of me, her white t-shirt completely soaked.
And also completely see-through.
I’m trying not to stare, but I’m finding it really fucking difficult because, number one: I’m a dude, and number two: She is smoking hot. I can see the outline of her hard nipples protruding through her black sports bra, and I feel my dick start to stir as I imagine the sight underneath.
Before I can perv on her anymore, she holds out the towel. “Here you go. Thanks again.”
I push it back to her. “Keep it. Sit on it so you don’t get your seat wet.”
“My car appreciates it.” She walks around the vehicle and opens her driver-side door, sticking one leg inside before popping her head up over the top to say goodbye. “Good luck at your game tomorrow. I won’t be there since it’s an away game, but I’ll text you some questions about it afterwards if you don’t mind.”
“Sounds good.”
She closes the door and starts the engine. Right as she’s about to drive off, I rap my knuckles on her passenger side window. She rolls it down for me, bending her head forward to make eye contact.
“Yeah?”
“You want to be a sports writer, right?” I squat down so I'm eye-level with her, my chin resting on the doorframe.
She nods slowly, wondering why I’m asking her a question I already know the answer to.
“You ever thought about stepping out from behind the pen and paper and getting in front of the camera? Like a sideline reporter or some shit like that?”
She considers it for a second. “Yeah, actually. My dream position would be one where I could do both writing and reporting on TV. But I’m not sure I’ve got what it takes to be on camera. Pretty sure you have to be some sort of pageant queen or runway model to get the job.”
“Believe me, you have the looks.”
She squeezes the wheel. “Whatever, Steel.”
“What? You do,” I insist. “And it’s not just that. You’ve got a nice speaking voice, too. And you’re smart and quick-witted. I’m telling you, you’d be perfect.”
“Any particular reason you’re trying to butter me up?” she asks, looking both perplexed and entertained.
“I’m just saying,” I say as I raise my hands in defense. “If you popped up on my TV screen, I wouldn’t change the channel.”
She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head, but she can’t hide the grin that breaks across her face. “Goodnight, Steel.”
I start to say goodnight when I feel a sharp pressure under my chin. It takes me a second to realize she’s rolling the window up, and I jerk my head out of there just in time. She gives a little wave and a friendly honk as her car pulls away. I throw my towel over my shoulder and watch as she turns out of the parking lot, all the while wondering what the heck is wrong with this girl.
I give her a compliment and what do I get in return?
She tries to freakin’ decapitate me.
11
I walk out of my last class Friday afternoon and into sunshine so damn bright I can’t see two inches in front of me. After I slide on my aviators and my eyes adjust, I pull out my phone to see what's happening this weekend. We don’t have a game until late Sunday, which means we can do whatever the hell we want tonight.
And what we want is to fucking party.
My screen is riddled with notifications, and I start thumbing through them.
Diego: Tequila or Whiskey 4 pregame tonite?
Diego: Tht’s a trick ? btw. The answr is alwys BOTH!
Weston: Rabbit’s Foot 11 pm?
Weston: Ellie’s bringing some of her hot sorority sisters.
Weston: Sigma Pi’s throwing a party 2.
Weston: Wtf dude. You lose ur phone or something? Answer me motherfucker.
I roll my eyes at the multiple messages as I type back a response.
Me: Still hungover from Sigma’s last shitshow. I vote Rabbit’s Foot. And sry I didn’t answer. I was busy @ this thing called class.
Weston: Nvr heard of it.
As I'm heading back to the Treehouse, I decide to make a pit stop at Café Cappuccino for a desperately-needed caffeine fix before going out tonight.
Apparently I’m not the only one with this idea because the shop is jam-packed. The moment I step inside, I’m greeted by the longest damn line I've ever seen. So long that I consider leaving and making a cup of coffee at home. Hell, it'd be cheaper anyway.
But once I get a strong whiff of their signature dark roast coffee beans, I’m reminded that the drinks here are a thousand times better than the instant coffee shit Cameron stocks the pantry with. Definitely worth the wait.
I squeeze between the door and the dude ahead of me who’s wearing headphones and blasting his screamo music so freaking loud I’m concerned he’s gonna burst an eardrum. Fuck, I'm concerned he's gonna burst my eardrum. I glance around at all the sleep-deprived students waiting and the frazzled baristas frantically trying to get orders out. The entire place is a madhouse, and it seems like the afternoon pick-me-up rush might be more chaotic than the morning one.
Knowing I’m gonna be stuck here for a while, I rummage in my backpack until I find the folded quiz I got back at the end of last class. I figured I’d check it out at home, but I’ve got nothing better to do right now so what the hell.
I open it up and smile like a Total Parker when I see a 94 written across the top in red ink.
Nice.
I’m reading the question I got wrong when I hear the door squeak open and feel someone slipping in behind me.
“Wow, athletic and smart?”
I turn around to see Rayne, an inquisitive simper on her face. She's gripping the black straps of her backpack, her bright, amused eyes popping against her turquoise workout top.
I’m not too surprised to see her here. Windhaven’s campus isn’t exactly what you’d call 'big'. You’re basically guaranteed to run into everyone you know at least a few times over the course of a semester, which isn’t always a good thing when it comes to clingy hook-ups.
Fortunately for me, Rayne is neither clingy nor a hook-up, so there’s no need for a stealthy get away. I flash her a big grin as my eyes sweep down her body. She looks cute with her long caramel hair braided into two pigtails that fall just below her chest and tight, patterned leggings gripping her shapely thighs.
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’m the total package, Raynie: Beauty, brains, and a total badass.” The line moves up and we both step forward, the door closing behind us. “You think I’m some sort of meathead?” I shake my head, feigning disappointment.
“Well…”
My eyebrows jut up and she laughs.
“Kidding, Steel. I’m sure you’re a genius.” She snatches the quiz from my hands. “What class is this for anyways? Basket weaving?”
Her eyes fly over the paper, inspecting it. When she spots the course name, a shadow of disbelief passes across her face, her tone immediately shifting from playful to pure shock.
“Wait, you got an A on one of Professor Doyle’s Stats quizzes? There’s no way. It’s impossible to get above a 60 on these. My roommate is like, MENSA level smart, and she ended up with a B in this class because these quizzes were so rough.”
She lifts her head, squinting at me in amazement. “You really are a genius.”
“Genius?” I get a good chuckle out of that one. “Uh, fuck no. But in certain subjects, sure, I’m decent.”
Luckily, keeping my GPA high has never been something I’ve struggled with, unlike some of the guys o
n the team. In particular the ones that think going to class is more of a recommendation than an obligation.
Rayne’s still looking at me with that baffled expression, like I grew an extra head or something.
Jesus. Is it really that hard for her to believe I’m not a complete dumbass?
“What’s your major?” she questions, eyes laser-focused on me.
I tsk disapprovingly. “Are you telling me that you, Miss Journalist, don’t know a fact that basic about the muse of your article? This is what? The third—no, fourth—time we’ve talked? And you don’t even know me? Sad.”
“Third. That first meeting absolutely does not count,” she corrects, but her cheeks turn pink when she continues. “Yeah, I am surprised I don’t know. I guess it hasn’t come up yet.”
We step forward together as the line moves, and she gets snarky again. “And you’re not my ‘muse’. You’re more like, I don’t know, my subject or something. My annoying subject.”
“I like muse better. Sounds more important.”
She looks at me expectantly. “So are you going to tell me what it is?”
“I’m a math major.”
“Damn. That’s impressive.” Her face twists with disgust. “But why? Math is mental torture.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I like it. It’s fun solving problems.”
“Fun?! What is wrong with you?” She grimaces. “I’m taking Calculus right now for my math credit, and it’s already killing me. Derivatives, integrals, it’s like I’m learning another language.”
I nod knowingly. “Yeah, it can be difficult, but to me that’s part of the appeal. I don’t like things that come easily to me. I want to work for the results. I want a challenge.”
“Spoken like a true athlete,” she remarks before her expression sours. “But I don’t think Calculus is just a challenge for me. It’s more like the world’s most strenuous obstacle course.”
“You know, I could help you out. If you’re having trouble, text me a picture of your work and I’ll help you see where you went wrong,” I offer.
“Really?” Her mouth's gaping as if I just offered her my winning lottery ticket.
I raise my shoulders. “It's not a problem.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
We get to the head of the line where the barista greets me with a wide anything-to-please-the-customer smile before asking for my order.
“I’ll take a large iced macchiato and—” I turn and gently pull Rayne up next to me. “What are you drinking?”
“Medium mocha with an extra shot, please,” she orders before giving me a warm smile. “Thanks.”
I pay and we move to the pick up counter to wait for our drinks. The place must've called in backup because they come out in just a few minutes.
“You wanna sit for a sec?” I nod to an empty table for two over in the corner. I wasn’t planning on hanging out, but I find myself wanting to stay and talk.
“Sure.”
As we make our way over, she takes the lid off her coffee and tosses it in the trash, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Offering to help me with Calculus, paying for my drinks. What’s with the nice guy act?”
“Figured I still owe you for last week when I pissed you off a hundred times.” I grin and mix my drink with the straw. “I’m not pulling your chair out for you, though. The royal treatment stops now.”
“And here I was thinking you were a gentleman.”
She smirks as we take a seat at the raised bar chairs. We barely get a chance to taste our drinks before a group of three giggling girls approaches the table, each one sporting a Windhaven Soccer shirt.
They spend the next thirty seconds clumsily trying to push each other to the front of the pack until one of them finally gives in, introducing herself and the others as big fans. I greet them politely, and we chat about the team for a few minutes.
Based on the way one of them is licking her lips and eyeing me hungrily, and the fact that another one asked if we’ll be selling a shirtless team calendar anytime soon, I have the suspicion they come to the games solely for the man-candy views. Can't blame them, though. I’m man enough to admit we’ve got some handsome dudes on this team, and I’d probably do the same damn thing if I was a chick.
After wishing me luck this weekend and waving goodbye, they sashay off. I think I’m in the clear, but the moment they’re gone another girl appears out of thin air and asks for a quick pic. She holds her phone out and presses her cheek to mine, and I notice Rayne's curious expression in my peripheral.
The girl thanks me profusely before happily skipping away. When I finally return my attention to Rayne, she waggles her eyebrows.
“Jeez, Mr. Popular, how the hell do you get anything done on campus with your large number of lady fans?”
“Jealous you don’t get me all to yourself?” I question with a wink.
“Oh, so jealous.” She crinkles her forehead. “But for real, is this how it always is?”
“During the season, yeah, it’s like this. But it’s not too hard to prevent them from approaching me. All I have to do is look busy as hell or angry as fuck and the ‘lady fans’ know to stay away.” I use air quotes around her term. “If we look like we’re in deep conversation, they won’t come up to us anymore.”
“Like this?” Rayne says, leaning towards the center of the table and leveling me with a heated stare.
Her intense gaze shocks the hell out of me, the fire blazing in her eyes so vivid and fierce it takes me a moment to respond. There are countless shades of brown and gold swirling in her irises, her eyes so damn expressive.
So damn pretty, too.
I clear my throat and gather myself.
“Yeah,” I say as I lean in closer and mimic her. “That’s perfect.”
Our staring contest lasts a total of three seconds before she bursts out laughing. “Okay, no. This is too weird,” she says.
She resumes her normal position and I follow suit.
“How’s your week been?” she asks after taking a sip of her coffee.
“Tiring. Morning conditioning sucks in general, but at least in the summer I can go home and pass the fuck out. During the school year I have class immediately after, so I’m still getting used to that. What about yours?”
“Hectic. But I only had one class this morning, so today was nice.”
“What were you doing on campus? Studying?”
“Actually, I went to the first practice with this rec volleyball team I signed up for. I haven’t played since high school, so I thought I'd be the crappiest one there. Turns out I didn't have anything to worry about because everyone else was rustier than me.” She takes another sip of her drink and frowns. “In fact, the only thing I’m concerned with now is that we’re gonna be the worst team in the league. Should still be fun, though.”
I give her a quick perusal. “I’m guessing you were a Labero in high school?”
“Can’t be much else when you’re only five foot three.” Her brow raises. “You follow volleyball?”
“Hmm, let’s see here. Spandex plus hot girls? I think even you can do that math.” I lean back in my chair and interlace my fingers behind my head. “Do the rec teams here have a spandex dress code? If so, expect me front and center at your games.”
A groan escapes her lips. “Oh my God, Steel. Save your cheesy lines for one of the Goal Girls. Don’t be such a creep.”
“Is it creepy to acknowledge the fact that you have an amazing body? Or just observant?” I question, watching her fight a smile as her eyes roll.
I can tell she's about to scold me again, so I quickly change the subject. “Where’d you go to high school, anyway? You from around here or out-of-state or what?”
And it's like the mood of our conversation instantaneously shifts with my—what I thought was innocent—question. Rayne's face drops and she chews on her thumbnail, visibly uncomfortable.
What the hell did I say?
“Um, I'm f
rom Hillcrest. I went to Hillcrest High.”
Oh.
Her strange reaction makes total sense as she reveals she grew up in the town next door to mine. Because if she went to my rival high school, if she's into sports news, then—
“So you probably know more about my past than the average student around here, right?”
She tugs on one of her pigtails and gives me a sharp nod.
I utter a long, distressed exhale, remembering all the crap the local papers had to say, how much they loved to scrutinize me, every shitty teenage-mistake I made put on blast for the world to see.
And then when everything happened and they started their speculations and bullshit commentary about my soccer career being over, my future down the drain…
My fingers tighten around my cup, back teeth grinding at the memories.
“Look, Rayne,” I say, seriousness laced in my voice. “I want you to know I'm not that guy anymore. That's not me. I just want to make sure you know that.”
