It’s just my imagination.
And why would she look for me?
She can’t stand the sight of me; that much was apparent in the bookstore yesterday. Besides, I pushed her away so hard, I made sure she’d never want me again. My head goes to that party where we broke up. Shit, can I even call it “breaking up” when we weren’t really together? Yet, it felt like we were a couple, every moment we spent together layered with heat and long glances.
Dillon waves as he comes out of the gym and jogs over. Dressed in shorts and no shirt, I can’t help but laugh at him.
“Dude, it’s forty degrees out here. Are you crazy?” I say when he reaches me.
He waves it off. “Can’t feel the cold when you’re as hot as I am.”
“Yeah, you’ll be hot with a fever if you don’t put some clothes on.”
He studies me. “Saw you talking on the phone. Girl?”
“Family.”
He leans down and touches his toes, still in workout mode. “Awards dinner, I assume? They coming? Mine are flying in.”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” He rises up and studies me, putting his hands on his hips, a frown on his face. “You good with that?”
I nod. “Cool with me. Don’t need them.”
That isn’t true. It isn’t, but I say the words because I don’t want pity. I didn’t think they’d come anyway, and I’m used to doing things on my own. Even in high school, they were too busy to attend most of my games.
“You sure?” His green gaze holds mine, but before I can reply, his eyes go over my shoulder. “Fuck me. Archer and company approaching.”
“What?” I turn to see a new white Mustang convertible with the top down rolling toward us. Looks like someone else doesn’t care about the cold.
Archer stops the car next to us, a few of the freshman defensive players sitting inside. He’s wearing a smirk with a haughty look in his eyes.
My spine stiffens.
“Yo, Blaze, didn’t hear your name on the news today. Looks like you’re still not invited to the Combine. Sucks, not that I would know.” He revs up the engine and grins, stretching his arms out of the vehicle and sweeping over it. “Check out my sweet ride. Got my advance from my agent this week. You got an agent yet?”
My jaw pops. No, I don’t have an agent, but fuck if I’ll tell him that.
I study the lines of the car, all sleek curves and custom wheels. I’ve never been into material things—can’t afford them anyway. Cars and big-ass houses don’t motivate me. The game does.
“Nice,” I say, trying to keep my cool and not let him know his digs get to me.
He rakes a hand through his white-blond hair and smiles. “Ah, sour grapes don’t look so good on your face.” He laughs then sobers, giving me a steely glance. “My bet is you won’t get an agent. You just don’t have what it takes, farm boy.”
I toss my gym bag down to the pavement, roll my shoulders, and step—
Dillon’s hand stops me. That’s exactly what he wants, his gaze says.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a sweet ride, Archer,” Dillon mutters, still holding my arm. “Now run along and enjoy yourself, asshole.”
Archer tosses up a little wave, looking nonchalant, but I know that look in his eyes as he drives away. He loves messing with me. He knows how important the next few weeks are, and if I don’t get invited to the Combine or get an agent or something, I’m done.
We watch as he peels out of the lot and heads to downtown, probably to a party. Some of the guys have been nonstop since we won the natty.
“He’s a dick,” Dillon mutters. “I’m glad he’ll be gone soon. I’ll have next year all to myself.”
I refocus, doing my best to shake it off and be my normal, goddamn fun self—which is quite a feat these days. It doesn’t matter that he’s got an agent. I’m fine.
I slap Dillon on the back. “You’ll make a great QB1.”
“Gonna miss your ass though.”
I laugh. He won’t. He’s got so many friends I can’t keep up with them. I’m more of a small-inner-circle guy, with tons of acquaintances I talk and laugh with but don’t open up to. “Maybe I’ll come back and try to finish my degree if I can’t wrap it up this term.”
He gives me a look. “You’ll get it. Nobody’s got drive and ambition like you.”
Yeah, but other wide receivers are beating me—according to the media.
Maybe I need another workout. I grimace when I realize my muscles need downtime.
I stick my hands in the joggers I threw on after my shower and pose, showing him my profile. “You think this face could sell cars? Is it pretty enough to rack up some commissions?” I give him a grin.
“You’re the prettiest boy on the team after me, but you aren’t going to end up selling cars.” He punches me in the arm. “If you do, it’ll be at one of those high-class Maserati places and girls will be crawling all over you.”
“Hmmm.”
He watches me open my door and toss my bag in. “You wanna get out of here and grab a drink at Cadillac’s? Or hit up The Purple Iris? I hear they’ve got a good band tonight. We’ve got the weekend before classes start and then it’s game on.”
I shake my head. “Told Coach I’d be in bright and early tomorrow to train.”
“You’re a machine, but all work and no play can be borrrring.” He pauses as if he’s going to say something else but stops.
“What?”
He looks away then back at me, rubs his neck. “Saw Charisma on campus earlier today. Seemed like some kind of sorority meeting. She looked hot, had on this black dress and these big heels—”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” My hands ball up.
“Dude.” He takes a step back. “Bros before hoes. I know the code and all. I just thought you might want to know. I didn’t see her with anyone, but then, it was a bunch of girls. You don’t care though, right?” His gaze searches my face. “You were a bit of a bear after that party last fall, and well, you kinda look like you might be headed back down that road again.”
Because ditching her was like tearing a limb from my body. Three times we had sex, and you’d think it wouldn’t mean much, but it had, and that was the problem.
I picture her smiling and laughing with her sorority girls. See, she’s happy, I tell myself, even though there’s a tug inside me that says she’s not, that maybe she’s hurting—
“That ship sailed. I’m done.”
He lets out a low whistle. “I’ll be honest, done doesn’t sit well on your face. I get you’ve got football putting the screws to you, but, man, she’s in your head. You think I didn’t see how you were looking at her at Cadillac’s? Like you’ve got an itch and only she can scratch it. You need to forget her and come out with me.”
I get in my car. She is in my head. Her note is sitting on my nightstand right now because I’m a dumbass who can’t let go of what she wrote.
“Come on, man. Dani and the girls will be there. I’ll invite my cousin Mary if you want. You know, she’s been asking to meet you, and I keep putting her off.”
I crank my truck. “Maybe next time. I want to be fresh tomorrow.”
He shakes his head at me. “I’m gonna hold you to that. Me, you, and some hot girls—it’s going to happen.” He grins.
“Yeah. Soon.” Just let me figure out football first.
8
On Sunday, I’m ready to eat my arm off by the time I pull into the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly. It’s the night before classes start and I’m stocking up.
After grabbing several packs of SlimFast, I find myself standing in front of the pasta aisle, salivating over an image of Ma’s ravioli in my head. Who am I kidding? Dear Diet, you’re boring and tasteless. Instead of losing weight, I’m going to look into those stretching machines and see if I can just get taller.
Feeling frustrated, I zoom past several aisles, aimlessly grabbing salad mix, low-carb chips, and diet soda.
I pass by the cupcakes in
the bakery, and my mouth waters at the smell of sweet sugar. I shove on past, muttering under my breath. I glance down at my shirt, which reads I Just Finished My First Marathon (Just Kidding—I’m On My Third Cupcake), then roll my eyes.
Not today, Satan. Not today.
Head to the alcohol! That will help. Do they make low-calorie wine? Yes, yes they do.
I walk past a few people and maneuver to the liquor aisle—then I see him.
Facing away from me, he’s bending down to check out the beer. From this angle, he could be any hot college guy at the grocery store, but the new, longer hair is unmistakable, and I’d know that frame anywhere.
That tight, muscular ass? Best on campus.
I don’t see Dani, and relief washes over me. I’m wary, though. She’s probably back at the makeup section a few aisles back.
He’s about ten feet away, yet his chiseled profile is enough to make me pissed, those broad shoulders enough to make my heart stutter. In his cart are packs of Big Red gum, a giant bag of Cheetos, protein drinks, and beer.
I look around to reroute my shopping and avoid him. The last thing I want is a replay of our bookstore argument a few days ago. Avoidance is the best course of action.
An older lady, maybe in her sixties, appears at the other end of the aisle, facing him. She seems distracted with her phone up to her ear as she talks to someone and bumps into his cart. I hear him apologizing as he moves out of the center of the aisle.
Her phone drops to the floor with a clatter.
Moving like lightning—as usual—he bends down, picks up her phone, and hands it back to her.
She doesn’t take it; her mouth flops open like a fish as she takes him in.
Yeah, he has that effect on most females, but this is different. This isn’t awe.
Blaze is still holding out her phone, and she snatches it out of his hand.
WTF?
Before I know it, I’ve eased in closer, moving slowly as I browse the Zinfandel selection, one eye on the pink wine and one on them.
His feet shuffle. Someone is antsy.
I pick up a bottle of something and pretend to study it.
“Mrs. Wilson…how are you? I—I—” he says softly.
She crosses her arms, seeming to gain back her composure. “Blaze Townsend. What are you doing here?” Her voice drips with a deep, thick Southern accent, someone who’s lived in Mississippi her entire life.
“Ah, I attend Waylon. Just restocking before class—”
“Of course, with alcohol I see.” Her eyes dart to his cart. “Are you even twenty-one?” She purses her lips and continues. “Why wouldn’t you be? You get to grow older. You have a life. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
My hackles rise.
“Yes, ma’am. Have you, um, moved to Magnolia?”
She sniffs and looks down a rather long nose at him. With faded blonde hair up in a French twist, cream slacks paired with a green sweater set, and a silk scarf that looks more expensive than my rent, she smells like old money. I picture her living in a plantation-style mansion, probably with a big porch and Greek columns in the front.
Her voice is cold. “No. Visiting some friends here for the week. They have a house on the lake. We’re retired now. Not much left for us to do in Alma. No grandkids.”
“Right, right. Guess Mr. Wilson isn’t mayor anymore.” He pauses, his hands moving from his legs to his cart, which he clenches like a lifeline. “I—I don’t get back to Alma much—”
“Don’t blame you.”
Her face is scrunched up, as if she smells something horrid, and I set the bottle back down on the shelf. Forget the Zinfandel; I’m outright staring now. FBI mode is on.
He hunches over the cart, leaning his arms on the side. “Right. I love Magnolia, so there’s no reason to go back.”
Bitterness flits over her face. “Good for you. You got the perfect life while my daughter is dead.”
He seems to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. My parents—”
“Your parents.” She spits the words out. “They deserve what they got for killing my Carry-Anne.”
What?
He bows his head and stares at the floor.
“They were useless druggies. Everyone knows that. Only they took her with them.” Her face compresses. “You might be a big football player here, Blaze, but everyone in Alma knows where you came from.”
“I…I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. I think about her—”
She jabs an unsteady finger at him. “No, don’t think about her. She should be alive right now. She should be married and happy and having babies, but your parents ruined our lives and…and…here you are living yours.” She takes a breath, and her hand rests across her chest as if she’s protecting herself. “Why, you’ve ruined my day.”
“I’m…sorry,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice.
I swallow. He’s apologized three times, and each time is worse than last, his voice leaning toward that dark sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes.
“Sorry means nothing,” she mutters before whipping her cart around and speeding away until she’s around the corner, the tap tap tap of her heels loud as she picks up her pace on the next aisle over.
“Blaze?” I call out, not intending to, but it’s a reflex.
He hasn’t responded, and I forget my cart and walk up to him. I put my hand on his shoulder tentatively, not wanting to startle him. “Hey.”
He turns slowly, and I wince at the haunted look in his blue eyes, his usually sun-tanned face white.
His gaze locks with mine, and then it drops. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
“You knew I was listening?”
“Figured. You flew right past me in the cookie aisle and never looked up. We always seem to find each other.”
I grimace. “I didn’t want to see those frosted cookies with the sprinkles. Ah, sprinkles, my old nemesis.” I shake a fist in the air, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“I smelled your perfume when you hit the liquor aisle. Figured you were back there somewhere.”
“Dude, that is not perfume. I need to tone down the peppermint body wash and the essential oils I diffuse.”
He looks down at his hands. “Don’t. I like it. Reminds me of Christmas.”
I huff out a laugh. “Just call me jolly old Mrs. Claus. All I need is a big red velvet dress with white fur. Maybe I can get a side gig at Macy’s during the holidays.”
He raises his head and looks at me, his brows lowered. “You’re too hot for Mrs. Claus. If anything, you’d be one of those little elves with the pointy hats and green leggings.”
Oh.
It feels as if we’re having a nice conversation. I clear my throat. “Who’s the lady with the attitude? I’ll go after her if you want. I have a mean right hook. My brother Mattie taught me. The trick is how you hold your fist.” I demonstrate. “See? Knuckle is out.”
“Beating up old people? That’s not your style.” He shakes his head and reaches into his cart, takes out a beer, opens it, and takes a long swig. A grimace flits across his face.
“Blaze—”
“Trust me, don’t ask. It’s not a pretty story.” He pauses. “Besides, you were never that interested in my past before. You were too busy lusting after my hot bod.”
“I see you’re feeling better.”
“Not really. I think I’m going to throw up.” He holds up the bottle of Fat Tire beer. “This piss is not what I need, but my throat is dry…” He leans a little too far to the right, in danger of crashing into the cold storage, and I grab his elbow.
He takes in a deep breath, his chest rising as he gasps for air. “Shit, Charm. Don’t feel so good. Do you…can you…” Before he can finish his sentence, his eyes roll back in his head and he slips straight down to the floor of aisle 9.
FML.
My knees drop to the floor next to him, cradling his head in my lap, which thankfully didn’t hit the tile as hard
as it could have. I say his name a dozen times, my tone escalating with each one. I give him a tiny slap and then another one that’s hard. “Blaze! Wake up, you…you big oaf!”
One of the Piggly Wiggly cashiers comes around the corner. With acne and braces, she can’t be more than sixteen. She drops the box she has in her hand. “Oh my God, did he slip and fall? Should I call the manager?” Her eyes flare. “Is that Blaze Townsend? Do you think he’ll sign something for me? I’m a big fan.”
I’m about to tell her to stop talking and call an ambulance when he speaks, his voice low and husky.
“You’ve been wanting to slap me for months,” he mumbles as he struggles to push up on his elbows. “What the hell is an oaf? Who talks like that?”
“It just came to me. I think it means crazy big guy. Seemed appropriate. Are you okay?”
“Just woozy. My workout was intense today, and I haven’t had dinner.” Red appears on his face as he looks around and sees the wide-eyed girl who’s gaping at us. His eyes lock with mine. “Damn, this is embarrassing.” He rubs his cheek and huffs out a small laugh. “Nice slap.”
I smirk. “Sorry. Don’t be embarrassed. Once a lizard got in Vampire Bill’s cage and he eviscerated it piece by piece. All I could do was scream, and when he ripped its head off, I keeled over like a piece of fluff in the wind.”
“I never took you for the kind who passes out at the sight of blood. Nothing scares you.”
Yeah. I’m the girl with the rules to protect her heart. That’s not brave. It’s insane and a little ridiculous, but it keeps me steady and focused on my goals—or it used to.
“Pfft. There’s plenty you don’t know,” I say.
“I know.”
I let that pass and help him stand. He weaves for several seconds but seems to find his balance, shoving back hair that has fallen in his face.
“Nice highlights,” I say before thinking.
He gives me a surprised look. “Dillon did them.”
I snort. “OMG. That’s crazy.”
He gives me a ghost of his usual smile, and I guess he’s still finding his equilibrium. “You should have seen it: me and him in a tiny bathroom with a box of bleach, a hair net thingy, and these little gloves that wouldn’t fit on either of our hands. It’s a wonder we didn’t pass out from the fumes.” He puts a hand to the bridge of his nose and presses.
I Hate You Page 6
