Sweet Keeper (Sweet Talkers Book 1)

by Thalia Sanchez

  “Bree…”

  “James,” I mock him. “Seriously, I’m good.”

  “Yeah, well, dad’s apparently raging. He called me a few minutes ago,” he lets me know with a somber timber.

  A lump finds its way to my throat, making me hold my breath.

  “Really? Why is that?” I ask, doing my best at keeping my voice steady.

  James laughs.

  “Please, dumbass. You knew that he was going to be livid because you stayed over at a guy’s house,” he states.

  I gulp as a tremor moves my body.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh,” James retorts.

  “In my defense, I didn’t plan on staying over. It just happened,” I declare. “His place was closer than mine, so I went there because he’s a good friend. Plus, nothing happened.”

  James hums.

  “What kind of idiot do you think I am? You can try to fool dad, but me?” He snorts. “I know you better than you know yourself, and it wasn’t that long ago that I was a college student. I’m not stupid.”

  A groan escapes my lips because I’m not lying for once. Nothing out of place happened between us. Stanley was a complete gentleman.

  “Believe what you want. Whatever,” I mumble, annoyed.

  “C’mon, you know that I’m messing with you,” he speaks in a lighter tone. “Am I ever going to meet this guy?”

  My back turns rigid as a wave of fear and tension hits me. I can’t allow that to happen. Not yet, anyway. Stanley is not ready to spend time with my family. Primarily when we haven’t spoken about what’s going to happen between us, we simply broke the first coat of the ice that surrounded us. There’s still a whole iceberg to discover and explore before we get into that.

  “Not gonna happen, dude.”

  “Huh, you must really like this guy then.”

  His words catch me off guard.

  “What?” I croak.

  “You’re protecting this guy. Although if I had to bet on who he is, I’m going to say it’s the guy from your photos.”

  Panic settles in my stomach.

  “Who?” I question.

  “The blond guy, the Ken. You’ve uploaded a couple of photos with him, and he always grabs you by the waist.”

  Oh, fuck.

  I had forgotten entirely about the two posts that I’ve made in which Stanley appears; the one from the time he cooked pasta, and the Halloween photos. There’s a pattern in both times, now that I think about it. Stanley was next to me with his hand on my waist. I didn’t believe that anyone from my family would put the pieces together, mostly because I hadn’t made peace with the fact that I like Stan.

  “I plead the fifth,” I utter.

  “Gotcha,” he chuckles. “But Mom is going to be all over you during Thanksgiving if you don’t give her any info.”

  “I’ll deal with mom.”

  We say goodbye, and I text Stan before I take a nap to recover my energies.

  Me: I’m safely home and with a new phone—same number.

  Stan: Good. I’m going to sleep for a while. Txt you later.

  Stan: BTW get some sleep.

  Me: tsk, I will since SOMEONE didn’t let me sleep.

  Stan: I DIDN’T LET YOU SLEEP? Bree, you kicked me a thousand times and stole my sheets.

  Me: Oops?

  Stan: but even then, I miss your ass in my bed.

  A smile draws on my face as a warm feeling blooms in my chest. I also miss being on his bed—with him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday morning, coach Hennig makes us wake up at dawn for practice, forcing us to get in shape for the upcoming season. We have five months left, and he typically lets us free during the first semester, but every once in a while, he summons us to make sure that we’re not slacking.

  Lacrosse is a spring sport, so we’re not active during fall and winter, and usually, our out-of-season practices are inside. Today is one of those days where not only did he choose to bring us together to practice, but we’re also on the field freezing our asses. Even with the compression wear under the uniform, I can still feel the cold sneaking in, making chills run all over my body. I’m a Florida guy, and I’m not used to the cold.

  Coach makes us do warmups, and apparently, he’s in a bad mood because it’s a suicide mission. We stretch, run backward, and side to side. We make squats, burpees, jumping jacks, and lunges. By the time that coach blows the whistle, I’m panting and sweating, no longer feeling the cold air hitting my cheeks. Ryder’s face is as red as a tomato from the physical effort.

  “Oh, God, I hate him. I really hate him,” Ryder drags the words, leaning over and putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  We haven’t been slacking. Ryder and I make sure to hit the gym a couple of times a week to stay in shape, but this practice has been intense. For some reason, there’s tension in the environment.

  Kaleb Fitzgerald—one of the defense players—is lying on the field, recovering from the warmups when Coach stands next to him and starts to scold him. He gets up with a mortal glare, still panting.

  “Is this what I’m counting on for the season?” Coach speaks in a cold and firm tone. His raspy voice is even raspier after yelling at us through the course of the warming drills. “I’m sure that the ballet dancers from the academy downtown can do this without sweating.”

  “Then he can call the fucking ballerinas,” Kaleb grunts as he gets in line with the rest of us.

  “Cora would kick our asses,” Ryder comments, and I do my best to avoid laughing. I don’t want to get on Coach’s lousy side today. “I’m serious. Have you seen her legs? They’re stronger than the two of us combined.”

  He’s not wrong, though. From what Bree has told me, Cora has been dancing ballet for over a decade. The strength she must have in her legs is more than what we need to play lacrosse. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m required to train this hard. I’m a goalkeeper. I’m not strictly obligated to do everything my teammates are doing because I’m not running around on the field following a ball and tackling other players. That’s something that players like Carter and Ryder need to do.

  But Coach wants us to do the same amount of work.

  “What are you two gossiping about?”

  I jump and straighten when I hear Coach’s rough voice behind us.

  “Nothing, Coach,” we respond in unison.

  “You better. Moving your tongues is not part of the practice,” he warns.

  Ryder turns his gaze to me and rolls his eyes without Coach noticing. I want to do the same thing, but I’m on Coach’s radar.

  Fuck, I might need new lungs after this.

  After warmups, we start the shooting drills, and I put on the protective gear that covers my throat and chest. Grabbing my stick, I stand in front of the net.

  “Weiss, be the defense for now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ryder jogs to his place with the long stick as the other players line up to take turns to do the drills.

  “McKinley, don’t be so hard on them,” Coach asks me.

  I translate that as: “let the poor guys score a couple of times.”

  Smiling, I put the helmet on as I tilt my head.

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  The guys pass Ryder’s defense and make their shots. Once in a while, I let the ball go into the net, but not too often. I need to practice, and I can’t make Coach think that I’m slacking. However, when it’s Carter’s turn, I don’t let a single ball go in.

  The impulse comes from a deep and dark place in my system. The bitter part of me doesn’t want John to win this time, not when I know that he had Bree’s attention before. If I can have an advantage over him, I’m going to fucking take it. Even if this makes me an asshole.

  Carter, panting with rage, runs on his last shot and tackles Ryder with unnecessary force, knocking him to the ground. Ry’s head hits the field, and his helmet shakes off with the impact. A groan of pain emerges from him, echoi
ng in the area. I throw my helmet to the ground as I jog towards my friend to make sure that he’s okay. The other guys do it too, including Coach.

  Except for Carter.

  He remains unbothered with a smug expression.

  “Dude, what the fuck?” I ask him, pushing him away.

  “Weiss, are you okay?” Coach questions Ryder. “Hey, knock it off, you two!”

  I ignore him as I push Carter again, hoping to trigger his anger, to have an explanation. My feelings have been on edge since the weekend. This situation is fueling my fire, sending me to explode like a grenade.

  “This is fucking practice, dumbass!” I sneer, and Carter’s fist connects with my jaw.

  I stagger back, but the anger only triggers my adrenaline, spreading through my system like oxygen. I don’t feel the pain in the area—or the dull ache. Instinctually, I punch him back with the same strength.

  Kaleb intervenes, getting between us before things escalate. Coach abandons Ryder—who’s now sitting with a pained expression—and grabs us by the collar of our shirts.

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” The rhetorical question comes out harshly. “If you want to get into boxing, do it out of my freaking field. You’re not kids, for fuck’s sake. You better not repeat this, or I’ll report you both.”

  Coach turns and concludes the practice. He’s fuming, and I think that the only reason he’s not blowing fire is that he’s physically incapable.

  Kaleb escorts me to the locker room to make sure that I’m not going back to fight Carter—again. His silence is unnerving while he stares at me cautiously.

  I hit the lockers with my open hand, and reality hits me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I acted like a complete douchebag. I allowed my instincts and my jealousy to get the best of me without thinking about the possible consequences. Leaning against the metal, I slide to the floor, breathing deep to ease the emotions.

  “Where’s all this anger coming from?” Kaleb interrogates as he walks to his locker.

  He’s allowed to be curious after that clusterfuck, but he doesn’t know anything about my life. We’re teammates, that’s all. So, Kaleb doesn’t need to find out about Bree and her past.

  “Carter was an asshole,” I state, trying my best to keep it vague.

  Kaleb snorts.

  “That’s a shocker,” he mumbles sarcastically. “Tell me something new.”

  I clench my jaw because I can’t tell him about all of the passive-aggressive comments that Carter has said during the weekend. Comments about Bree that are making me explode like a grenade.

  “Today Carter was a bigger dick than he usually is,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  Kaleb nods nonchalantly.

  “Yeah, he’s been that way since the incident at Johns Hopkins.”

  My muscles tense as a wave of fear paralyzes me. In my chest, my heart stops beating for a second.

  “What incident?” I try to sound as calm as possible, hiding the panic that pools on my stomach.

  The students from Johns Hopkins—especially his lacrosse team—are Moss’ biggest rivals. What worries me is that in Ryder’s lie about the phone, he made it seem like they were behind the innocent prank. This is a problem because if Carter went to get payback, it was for no reason at all.

  Kaleb shrugs, missing the wave of nausea that shakes my body.

  “It was a couple of weeks ago, I think. He wanted to get back at them because of what they did to his phone. I don’t know the details, honestly. I was out of town when it happened. You should ask Dave about it. He went with Carter,” he suggests, tilting his head. “I’m surprised that you didn’t know since you live together and all that.”

  “We’re not exactly knit close,” I mumble as worry sneaks under my skin, mixing with my anger.

  “I can see that. Anyway, I’m going to take a shower, try not to get yourself into more trouble.”

  The only trouble that I’m going to be into is when the bomb explodes, and Carter finds out that I was the one who stole his phone and that Ryder had my back.

  If he doesn’t know it already.

  I meet Bree at the cafeteria an hour after the paramedics of the infirmary made sure that Ryder didn’t have a concussion. They gave him a bag of ice for the pain and suggested that he went home, but the dumbass doesn’t want to miss his classes. Ryder says that he’ll end up falling asleep in the apartment, and there won’t be anyone there to wake him every thirty minutes in case he does have a concussion, which means that I’m going to be his nanny for the rest of the day.

  Bree is sitting on one of the tables talking with Ash. I take advantage of the distance to appreciate that they’re both complete opposites. While Ash is tall and lean, with a face that brushes the limits of perfection, black straight hair that reaches her waist, and snow-white skin, Bree is the opposite. She’s tiny, her wavy hair messy, with olive skin, rough edges, and chaotic vibes.

  I like her chaos.

  I walk to her table and kiss her cheek, nearing the corner of her lips, but not close enough that she’s going to get uncomfortable by some kind of PDA. It’s not like what we did is a secret. If Ryder knows, I’m sure that her friends know too.

  Bree smiles with my kiss, but it fades once she sees the small red bruise on my jaw. I don’t think it’s going to get purple. Hopefully, it won’t because I have things in mind for the weekend, and I don’t want a purple bruise on my face.

  “What the hell happened?” Her eyes fall on the ice bag that Ryder presses on the back of his head. “What the fuck happened to you two?”

  “Our roommate,” Ryder responds, dropping on one of the free chairs and leans his head on the table.

  I sit next to Bree, and she inspects my face. Her fingers caress the affected area, rubbing it gently. I wince when she presses down on the bruise.

  “Do I need to ask the asshole roommate, or are you going to tell me the details?” Bree inquires in a demanding tone and arches a brow.

  I wrinkle my nose because I don’t want to get into details about what happened.

  “We had an intense practice.”

  “I thought lacrosse was a spring sport,” she comments, frowning.

  I nod.

  Bree’s not wrong about it. The official season doesn’t begin until spring.

  “It is.”

  “So?”

  “Coach likes to call us sometimes to make sure that we’re not working on our game,” I briefly inform because I don’t want to bore her with the details. “Anyway, Carter was being a dick, tackled Ryder using unnecessary force, and the rest is history.”

  Bree rolls her eyes, exasperated.

  “Well, history isn’t going to tell me how the fuck did you end up with a bruise, Stanley.”

  “Your knight in a shining armor went to defend my honor and got into a fight with Carter,” Ryder explains, barely holding his head up.

  Bree gawks at me, speechless. For a moment, I think that she’s going to scold me, but she laughs and kisses my bruised jaw.

  “I’m sure that he deserved it. Now we have matching bruises,” Bree comments, making me chuckle, and turns to observe Ryder. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

  “I have classes, and I’m not supposed to drive,” Ry mumbles in a groan.

  “Classes are more important than your health?” Bree questions in a severe and demanding tone.

  Well, fuck me, if I’m not turned on by it.

  “It’s going to be an interesting class,” Ryder protests, batting his lashes as he tries to charm his way out of this conversation.

  “You’re going to have a nanny then,” she announces, refusing to give up.

  “We have chemistry,” I remind her.

  The corners of her lips curve as she fights against a smile.

  “What kind?”

  I’m taken aback by her flirtatious answer, but I don’t mind it.

  “Both kinds,” I answer, winking. “I can text Kaleb.”

  “I can stay with him,” Ash offers, shrug
ging. Bree and I interchange an intrigued gaze. “My class got canceled. I have three free hours.”

  Ryder’s head pops up, squinting at Ash.

  “Do you mind being drawn?”

  “As long as I’m not naked,” she answers without hesitating.

  “Perfect. I need a model for today’s class,” he announces.

  Bree’s mouth falls wide open.

  “Art? Your major is art?” she asks, skeptical of the information.

  It’s fun to see her so shocked because I told her that the guys of the team had different majors that didn’t fit her mental stereotype. Ryder is a full-on artist. The reason why we don’t have a fourth roommate is that he has a room that he uses as a studio. No one is allowed to go in there, and it’s fine by me. He has his soul inside of it, and I’ve seen a few of his paintings, which are absurdly good.

  “What did you think that I studied?” Ryder wonders.

  I bite my bottom lip, foreseeing his reaction. He’s not going to like at all what Bree thought of him.

  “Something related to business.”

  Ry rolls his eyes so hard that I’m afraid that one of them will get stuck in the back of his head.

  “Bree, I truly loved you until you said that,” Ryder speaks with scorn, returning to his previous position. “Ash?”

  “What?”

  “Will you rub my hair while I take a nap?”

  Ash’s eyes open widely, being caught off guard by his petition. Ryder knows no boundaries. His confident personality is not something that everyone is used to. Sometimes he comes off as pushy, dramatic, or intense, but that’s him. I owe him a helluva lot to complain about it.

  “You’re a baby,” Ash mutters as she takes her hand to his hair, caressing the dark strands.

  “So I’ve been told,” Ryder mentions. “If I’m the baby, will you be my mommy?”

  Bree snorts and covers it with a cough.

  “You’re irritating, Ryder. Did you know that?” Ash quips.

  He nods calmly.

  “And we have to go,” I intervene in the conversation, staring at Bree as I stand from the chair.

  Bree looks at her friend.