by Mariah Dietz
My smile is a shared awareness that he enjoys this fact. “Have you always loved football?”
Derek looks at me with those caramel brown eyes. “Since I could walk.”
I want to tell him Paxton is the same way, how he’s been obsessed with the game since Grandpa gave him a nerf football. How he and Grandpa have been dominating the TV and living room every weekend to watch college and pro games. How Grandpa used to come for Thursday and Monday night as well, but with getting remarried to Camilla, the visits became more intentional. But, bringing up my brother twice on a date seems like a bad omen, especially considering his and Derek’s often arduous relationship.
“What started your love for the game?”
“Honestly?”
“No. Please lie to me. Tell me it was something you were cursed with. Tell me you’re forced to do it to keep your family alive.”
Shock hits his eyes. I see it, the question of whether I’m joking and if I’m always sarcastic and loud. I should likely assure him now that it’s in my blood. “I’m kidding. Tell me.”
“My dad used to play. He played in college until he tore his ACL sophomore year. He couldn’t recover, unfortunately. I think it messed with his head. There’s a cruel reality that occurs when you first get injured that suddenly makes you feel like glass.”
“Does he worry about you getting hurt?”
He nearly touches his ear to his shoulder as he debates an answer. “Sometimes. Maybe. I think he lives vicariously through me at times, hoping I’ll make it farther than he did.”
I consider that kind of pressure as Derek parks in the back of the lot, away from the rest of the cars. I don’t blame him. I’d be afraid to drive this car, let alone park somewhere frequented by high school and college students.
Inside is a maze of arcade games, dim lights, and a stench that is equal parts bleach and pizza. Derek leads us to the front counter, his pace a step faster than mine. I don’t mind though, it prevents the silence from feeling awkward. The girl at the counter is young, her blue polo unbuttoned, revealing her cleavage. She leans forward on an elbow, her charcoal lined eyes wide and playful. If flirting were rated, she’d be the valedictorian, and stupidly, it makes me stumble and doubt everything from my ripped jeans to the barely-there lipstick I wore in an attempt to not look overdone.
Derek smiles. “Two for mini golf.”
“Aren’t you going to say please?” she asks, unwrapping a red sucker that she pops between her matching red lips.
He glances at me, a smile forming before he leans forward. “Pretty please?”
I consider how I’ll be explaining this to Poppy later. Is he intentionally flirting with her? Did he look at me first as though to say he has plenty of options? Is he just a flirt?
I miss their next exchange until he starts laughing, but whatever was said has already ended, and Derek’s lifting the two clubs off the counter.
“Do we need to get golf balls?” I ask.
He opens his opposite hand, revealing two balls, one light and the other dark blue, and I have a pretty good idea what she’d said.
I try to force the encounter out, erasing it from our short timeline, and cling to our easy conversation in the car and the warmth of his laugh, the caress of his gaze.
But, as hard as I try to focus on those easier moments, the mood of our date has changed. I’m grateful we left the coffee bar, though, because at least while playing mini golf, I have an excuse that allows the long absence of conversation.
“Should we take a break?” Derek asks as we wait again. It’s a nice night, drawing a crowd to the small attraction. We’ve hit a log jam, two couples already waiting in front of us. “They have snow cones over there.”
“I don’t think I’ve had a snow cone since I was six,” I tell him.
My fingers are already cold, relying heavily on me moving to remain warm, but I follow him toward the small stand, ready to relive how long my mouth with be dyed blue when I see Lincoln. He’s sitting at a table, his legs kicked out, ankles crossed as he sits across from the same blonde from the party, the one who wanted to date him. She looks prettier than I’d remembered—likely for reasons filed under self-preservation and dignity. She’s looking at him, laughing at something he’s saying, her hand on his forearm. I can’t stop memorizing each detail, the gray Henley that makes his skin look darker, the gleam in his brown eyes, the animated way he’s talking that looks so easy—it feels intimate. I pull my attention away, ducking my face and speeding up, hoping there are tables on the other side so we don’t have to sit near them.
“Derek.” The voice makes my heart stutter and my steps stop.
Derek turns toward Lincoln, surprise lifting his brow. I assumed he’d seen him as well, but I forget that not everyone pays attention to details that rarely matter in life in the same way I spend too much time doing. “What’s up?” he says, nodding.
Lincoln sits up, his attention remaining solely on Derek. “Small world.”
“Sometimes too small.”
My attention volleys between them, attempting to read each minute twitch and lift of the eyebrow, every spark that hits their eyes, and curves of their lips both north and southward.
“You guys want to join us?” Lincoln moves an empty tray off the table. “Come on. Take a seat.”
Derek remains rooted for several seconds, making me wonder if he’s waiting for me to reply, but then he moves forward, two steps ahead of me like he has been much of the night. It hasn’t bothered me—until now—because now is, of course, when Lincoln turns his full attention to me, his expression a mask of indifference. He continues staring at me as I sit down, and I again spend too much time wondering where to place my arms—my sides, the table, or linked with Derek’s like Lincoln’s date does as she moves to sit beside him.
“Nikki, this is my teammate, Derek.” Lincoln extends a hand toward Derek, and then waves toward me. “And my best friend’s sister. Guys, this is Nikki.”
Asshole.
My stomach feels tight, annoyance giving a roundhouse kick to what was left of my happy mood.
“Raegan,” I say, reaching across the table to shake her hand.
Nikki’s fingers are shockingly warm—hot even against my chilled skin, but she doesn’t flinch or make a comment about my icy touch. Instead, she smiles. “It’s so nice to meet you both.” She looks at me, her smile widening. She has a great smile, one that reminds me of Julia Roberts. “Is it weird dating your brother’s friend?”
Lincoln barks out a laugh. I cringe, regretting my suggestion to come here with each passing second. I want to tell her that seeing Lincoln with the same girl twice is stranger. That having my sister on the opposite side of the planet is strange. That it would take only an hour to reach space if we could drive vertically is strange, but I refuse to see my first date with Derek as even remotely strange. I shake my head. “Not really.” I don’t mean to glance at Lincoln, but my gaze skitters toward him, noting the way his eyebrows bob before he leans back in his seat. His gaze is steady and sharp, reading between the clouded lines.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” Derek asks, extending an arm across my shoulders, the weight so distracting I miss Lincoln’s quip.
Nikki looks at Lincoln, flashing a wide smile, her side profile possibly prettier than the front. “We went to dinner at this fantastic Thai place over off of First. So good.”
Dinner?
That’s not just hanging out. That’s a date. A bigger commitment than Derek and I made.
“Have you guys already played?” Derek asks, cocking his head toward the course.
“We were just waiting for it to slow down,” Nikki explains, scooting closer to Lincoln when a breeze blows over us, tangling in my hair. I tuck it behind my ears.
“Yeah, we’re taking a break because we got tired of waiting for people,” Derek explains.
“Well, let’s go together,” Lincoln says.
It’s a terrible idea. A guaranteed mistake.
“We were going to grab some snow cones,” Derek says.
“We’re not in a hurry.” Lincoln leans back as though to prove his point.
Lincoln’s too stubborn to accept any vague excuse, and Derek’s too proud to say no.
“Why don’t I get snow cones? You guys want anything?” I ask, looking at Lincoln and Nikki.
Lincoln slides out of his chair. “I’ll help you.” He brushes his hand against her arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Betrayal and anger meet, twisting painfully in my chest. I hold on to them, ignoring the less intense but more painful feeling lingering in my heart, taunting me. I nail Lincoln with a glare that demands he sit back down, but he continues toward me. I drop my attention to Derek. “Do you know what flavor you want?”
His eyes are narrowed, attempting to read the situation himself. But my clear abruptness toward Lincoln makes his lips curl and his shoulders relax. “Lime, please.”
Lincoln steps beside me, his fingers brushing my lower back, adding to the reasons I wish I’d brought a jacket. I need more barriers. More space.
But there’d never be enough because he sucks up all the air and all the space.
21
My skin’s memorizing the weight and warmth of his touch as we round a corner that’s lined with thick shrubs that prevent me from being able to see Derek or Lincoln’s date.
I tell myself it’s a reflex and nothing more. That I’m not affected by him or his proximity. That it’s first date jitters that have my heart racing and my thoughts colliding.
“Why do you seem so pissy? She’s not a giggler. I thought you’d be impressed.”
“So impressed,” I deadpan.
“She’s going to school to be a hospital manager.”
“Good for her.”
“She volunteers at a nursing home on the weekends.”
“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a checkpoint for who you date or sleep with.”
“You aren’t,” he confirms.
His words are like a speed bump, slowing me to a stop. “Then why are you giving me her resume?” He stops as well, turning to face me before I continue. “I don’t care. At all. I don’t want to know how smart she is or how nice she is or anything else. I don’t want to know.”
“Yeah, wait until you’re trying to sleep tonight. Or when you’re trying to work or listen to a professor. Just wait.”
I shake my head, dispelling his words and the thoughts they’re orchestrating, the assumptions that will plague me for weeks and possibly months to come. “What is that supposed to mean?” My question is a demand, and when he starts to turn away from me, I grip his arm, refusing to let him ignore me.
He stops, his gaze on my fingers. I slowly release my grasp, losing the heat of his skin that radiates through each cell. “You know what it fucking means.”
“You can’t keep saying things like that when you act another way entirely.”
He drops his head back, a sound too similar to a growl ripping through his chest.
I know him. Know that he doesn’t date, that he isn’t losing sleep over me—he’s torturing himself because of Derek. Anyone else, and he wouldn’t waste a second’s thought.
It’s an infuriating and hurtful realization, confirmed when his gaze flicks to the side in the direction of Derek and his own date.
I lower my shoulder and blow past him like I’m ten and on the field with Pax, my anger and determination making me feel twice my actual size. His fingers catch mine, tangling like a drift net that leaves me immobile for several seconds, my attention hooked on his, working to decipher the hard mask that is his constant. My lungs burn, filling with salt water, though I’m nowhere near the sea. It’s another reminder of the dangers of being too near him.
He reaches forward, hooking his free hand around the back of my neck, each callused digit pressing tighter than the last, marring my skin with his touch in a way I know I’ll be able to still see the mark in a decade, two—a lifetime.
The gap between us closes. It was his step that closed it, submerged me so deeply I can’t tell the surface from the ground. Lincoln’s eyes flare, and his fingers constrict further, then his eyes fall shut, and he shifts, his chest still firmly against mine. His kiss is as sure and hard as my feelings toward him, demanding and intense as our lips crush against each other, taking and giving until the lines between the two are so blurred I don’t know if I’m trying to please him or myself.
“We can’t,” I say, dragging my lips away, though my hands dig into his biceps, contradicting my words.
He presses a hand against my lower back, grinding me closer. I feel his desire against me, stripping the boundaries and limits between us. I pull in a shaky breath, my lungs struggling to work as need builds and quickly overflows, consuming me. My body bows to meet his, desperate to feel his touch against each fraction of my body. A growl rips through his chest, vibrating against mine. I swallow it, licking each delicious groan from his lips that are still stained with the flavors of coffee. A sweet and bitter reminder of his date waiting mere feet from us.
I pull my chin back, the rough scratch of Lincoln’s five o’clock shadow a tantalizing distraction, working to pull me back under.
He’s a rip tide—a danger that would swallow me entirely. And I want him to. I want to dive right in and let him take all my thoughts away and bask in the delicious pain and bliss currently consuming me.
“Let’s go,” he orders, kissing that spot on my jaw that makes me dizzy.
I shake my head, the shore of reasoning still in view, albeit a far distance. “We can’t.”
“She means nothing.” His hand slides over my backside. Each contour of my body works to memorize his touch as the harsh reality of his words brings a startling reminder of how bad this idea is. How I’m hurting Derek, who has been nothing but honest, and a stranger who I hate to admit seems like a nice person, and myself because I don’t think I could weather the storm of Lincoln, and live to tell the story.
“I know. And neither would I after tonight.”
His grip tightens, like he realizes I found a way to escape from his pull. “Don’t think. Just…” his voice is husky, drunk on lust and the desire I still feel pressed against my belly. His lips fall against mine, a plea turned demand in the form of a bruising kiss. Hope tries to replace the lies in my head, but it’s like waking up a few minutes before your alarm goes off in the morning—trying to buy more sleep, but the moments are already stolen by the reality you work to postpone, and therefore you remain in a restless state of torture until the beep finally starts.
I move my hands to his chest, pushing him back so I can breathe again. He obliges, but for the first time that mask he wears is gone, confusion marring his brow and lust dilating his eyes. “Don’t go with him,” he says.
His words wrap around my heart like a vise. A painful reality that has me crossing my arms over my chest in attempt to soothe the pain and raise some sort of defense against him. “Is that all this is? A competition from the damn field?”
“You don’t know him,” he says, clarifying it is exactly that.
“I hate you.” I spin around, loathing my options to return to where Derek and Lincoln’s date wait for us and the snack stand where the girl behind the counter is watching us with rapt attention. I place a cold hand to my cheek that’s burning with anger and embarrassment.
“You just humped my leg. Clearly you don’t hate me that much.” His tone is filled with petulance and anger that makes me feel childish and rings on my innocence.
I stare at him, watching the mask slide back into place. “You’re a coward.”
He laughs. It’s deep and bitter, a sound that makes me think of pain rather than joy. “You’re naïve.”
He’s probably right. I want the good. I want the whole. I still expect the fairytale, though I learned a long time ago that glass slippers and talking mice were lies and that poisoned apples are readily available, spread by those who feel threatened
by the glimmer of loss or defeat.
“I hope she gives you chlamydia.”
I forget about the snacks, refusing to stay here any longer, and turn back toward Derek, wiping the back of my hand against my mouth, and when that doesn’t remove the stain of his lips, I pull the neck of my shirt up and fiercely wipe the fabric against my lips until they feel raw.
Derek’s sitting at the table, laughing at something Lincoln’s date has said. I can’t remember her name, anger blinding most of my coherent thoughts, and the guilt for that and wishing her an STD crashes into the realization I just made out with her date, building into a tidal wave that reaches my eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well. I think I’m going to call a Lyft.”
Derek stands, his smile slipping into a look of concern. “Are you okay? I’ll drive you. Come on. Do you need anything?” His questions are like the lashes of a whip, punishing me. Lincoln appears then, rubbing salt into each freshly laid wound as his gaze travels to the spot where Derek’s hand rests on my arm. I avoid his gaze, and his date, and mine, and focus on my gray Toms.
“I’m okay. I think I’m just tired.”
Derek nods, his gaze traveling over my face and body as though attempting to read the lies Lincoln left across my skin. “Let’s go.” He sets a hand between my shoulders, his thumb sliding against me in a calming and rhythmic manner that is off beat to my heart, adding to the culmination of guilt and regret that is growing like an incoming tide. I step away from his touch, and though it makes my guilt increase, my sanity can’t withstand another second of comparing his touch to Lincoln’s.
“Maybe you should sit down? You look a little pale.” Lincoln’s date stands. Her concern and kindness creating a whole new level of self-loathing.
“I’m always pale.” It’s the first bit of truth I’ve shared with her.
“I’ll take her home. She lives near me.” Lincoln steps forward. I take two backward.
“I’ve got it taken care of.” That edge has returned to Derek’s voice—a sound of anger and resentment I’ve only heard him use with Lincoln and Pax.
