by Mariah Dietz
Arlo nods. “We should throw a Christmas party at the house. I’ll wear it again with my Beast mask.” He flashes a smile to show he’s not bullshitting. “Where’s The President?”
“Getting his ankles taped.”
Arlo nods as he slips on his knee brace. “I heard some scouts are going to be at Saturday’s game.”
This catches my attention like a fly trap. “Who?”
“Coach mentioned the Seahawks, and he thinks someone from the Chargers might come as well, and maybe the Falcons.”
While I would be insanely proud to play for any team in the league, it’s always been my dream to play for the Seahawks. I grew up obsessed with the team and knew their plays, and coaches, and roster like it was my responsibility to know every detail. My childhood bedroom was wallpapered in memorabilia, and my Christmas lists used to be composed of Seahawks jerseys, trading cards, and more memorabilia.
“Their quarterback is retiring soon. This year or next year,” Arlo tells me like I don’t already know. “Big game.” He says while finishing getting dressed. This is the understatement of the decade. We’re playing Cal State this weekend, and their quarterback, Pike, is getting a ton of attention for being quick and accurate on the release.
“You’re almost late!” Bobby yells, drawing my attention to the doorway leading into the locker room where Derek has his gym bag slung over his chest, heavy bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep, and his hair greasy.
He grins, his gaze sliding to me. “I had a long night. A girl found me who hadn’t been pleased in a long time.”
“Why’s he looking at you while he’s saying this? Is he giving you bedroom eyes?” Arlo asks.
“Because he hooked up with Candace last night,” I quietly admit.
Arlo barely hides his surprise. “Should I hold you back?”
I quirk an eyebrow.
“I mean, are you pissed off about this? Or I could do it just for show.” He discreetly cuts his attention to Derek. “He’s trying to piss you off, so we might as well give him a show. I bet he’d piss his pants.”
I grin. “He’s not worth it. Neither is she.”
Arlo grips my shoulder. “You’re so right. Maybe we can talk Ian into plowing him over on the field just for good measure.”
“Let’s go,” I say, heading toward the tunnel that leads out onto the field.
“My nipples could cut glass,” Arlo says, rubbing his hands over his arms. “Doesn’t Brighton make enough money to fix the furnace?”
“Let’s be glad it’s not our house. I’ll take the locker room furnace being out any day.”
“Don’t jinx us,” Arlo warns. “Besides, I don’t know if you’ll be feeling the same way once it’s time to hit the showers. I’ll see you on the field.” He extends his fist to meet mine and then peels away to go meet with the other running backs.
“Let’s go!” Coach Baker yells.
Morning practices start with us dividing into our positions and warming up, then running drills before we come together and run offensive drills. I sprint to the sideline, closely followed by our two other quarterbacks. Our single practices have been split into two ninety-minute practices, a limit the NCAA has established that we stretch by adding mandatory weight lifting and hours of watching and dissecting game tape.
“Lawson, lead your team,” Coach Baker says, giving me a nod of confidence and awareness that brings me back to last year when he had absolute faith in me.
I nod and start doing drop steps around the small, chalked perimeter. We continue, each movement specific to our small trio that has us working on our footwork.
“Nice job. Cooke, I want you to start off with the drop plays.”
Before shit hit the fan, this was my role. There was never any question. I led the warmups. I led each drill. I wore the red shirt for every offensive and defensive set on the field. Poppy might have offered me a little leniency, but it’s clear I have a long way to go to get his respect and trust back.
10
Poppy
I don’t know what I expected from a fake relationship. I’m still not sure that I do now, five days into this endeavor, but showing up to an address that Paxton texted to me along with an invitation to go to a party before we even understand where we stand and how we’re going to orchestrate this ruse is not it. I’m a planner through and through. I like lists—checklists, grocery lists, to-do lists. Winging it has never been my strong suit. Not only am I a terrible liar, but a lack of planning awakens my anxiety, and right now, that anxiety is taking the shape of an ulcer in my stomach as I stare at the large brick house.
I double-check the address and feel my lungs deflate at the realization I likely won’t know anyone but Paxton tonight. We’re forty-five minutes south of Seattle, in a neighborhood I don’t know by sight or name.
Questions about what will happen tonight are floating through my head as I lock my car and cross the street. Am I going to be hanging out alone? Am I his DD? Rae was right—we need to make some rules.
The house smells like pot, but that’s not my first realization as I step through the door. No, the first thing I’m aware of is how everyone is dressed like they’re from the early nineties, wearing colorful tracksuits, stone-washed jeans, and sunglasses with colored lenses. This is why I like to plan.
I peer around like I might recognize someone, noting how nearly everyone is drinking. A guy with dark hair stares at me, and when I look at him, he grins. My reciprocated smile is an automatic response rather than an intention. Rae thinks I’m adept at flirting, but really, it’s just that I’m good at smiling, which is what I’ve learned most people want to see, including and not limited to guys at parties.
I continue moving farther into the house before he can make his way over to me, and find Paxton in the kitchen. He’s talking with a girl whose hair is dyed a dark burgundy shade.
This is awkward.
Paxton’s attention shifts to me and recognition has his eyes brightening. “Poppy!”
I lift my hand and wave.
“Come here!” he yells.
I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to dating. After all, aside from Mike, I haven’t dated many guys. But, based upon what I see when hanging out with Lincoln and Rae, which is pretty much always, they don’t tend to yell across the room at one another.
I hold up a finger and point toward the keg. I don’t actually intend to get beer, but a glass of water will help deter people from offering me a drink and offer a reasonable excuse not to contribute if the conversation gets too weird.
Pax nods his understanding, his gaze returning to the girl with unnaturally red hair.
I find a tower of stacked Solo cups and lift the top one off before taking the second and returning the top cup again. It’s a trick I learned after watching how many people drop the cup under the one they take off of the top and then return it to the stack.
“You know beer kills all the germs?” a guy with white-blonde hair and light blue eyes says. His lips are in a measured line, making it difficult to determine if he’s condemning me or flirting with me. Sarcasm can be such a fickle bitch, especially when you’re already feeling self-conscious.
“Water doesn’t, though,” I tell him.
“Water?” His question is laced with judgment as I go over his facial features again, noting the way his eyes are pinched, and his lips are thinned with what appears like a sneer. “Let me guess; you prefer wine. White, not red, but you don’t know any of the actual names or differences, just that you prefer the sweet ones.”
He’s mostly right, but because he’s being a dick about it, I have no intention of admitting this. I blame guys like him and Chase for why my dating history continues to be brief. Last fall, I’d thought it would be fun to date around. Per the picture that Hollywood movies had painted, I’d assumed this looked like grabbing coffee and making small talk, maybe going out to watch a live band play, flirting through texts, and kissing. Lots and lots of kissing. Then I attended
my first college party, and realized dating around in college largely consists of messy make-outs where you both smell and taste like warm beer, fumbling hands and unpracticed fingers pulling at bra clasps, and exchanging your phone number with a dozen people and only hearing from one who inevitably texts late at night or between classes in an attempt to hook up—cue Chase. Hence my lack of dating around, and hence why being here without Rae or anyone else I know to comfortably lead me away from jerks like this guy, has me ready to leave.
An arm brushes against my shoulder, and Paxton appears at my side. His gaze is on my self-elected judge. Paxton wears his confidence like a second skin. It’s in the way his shoulders are always pulled back, in the easy way he smiles, in the way he’ll strike up a conversation with anyone. Currently, it’s translated in the way he stares this asshole down with a silent threat that the guy seems to hear because he shrinks back like a snail, hiding in his shell.
“What she likes or doesn’t like to drink is none of your goddamn business,” Pax says. “It’s my business.”
The guy clenches his teeth like he wants to say something cunning or sarcastic but also knows better.
“And if you be a dick to her or anyone else again, I’ll make sure you’re my business.”
The stranger takes a drink and then turns and heads toward the living room.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Threatened him. That’s the last thing you need on your rap sheet.”
Pax gifts me with a broad smile. “I have a rap sheet, now?”
“Isn’t that why I’m here?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Touchdown for Poppy Anderson,” he says, chuckling as he turns and rakes his gaze over the party.
“Not to sound like your babysitter, but is there a reason we’re here?”
“It’s a party.”
“I see that.”
His eyes flash to mine. “Then what are you missing?”
“You said you wanted to do this to improve your reputation. Step one involves not going out to any parties.”
“No one from Brighton is going to be here.”
“Pretty sure others besides students at Brighton will recognize you.”
A dismissive shrug tugs at his shoulders. “Tonight, I needed a little revenge.”
“Revenge?” I repeat the word like it’s foreign and unknown.
He nods once, his attention over my shoulder where he’s tracking something or likely someone. “God, I need a drink for this,” he says.
“For what?” I ask. I start to turn to see what’s holding his attention and realize it’s a who—more accurately, Candace.
“We should definitely g—.” My words are cut off as Paxton grips my shoulders and tugs me in one harsh and fast move that has me falling against his chest. I think I gasp or maybe yelp. Either way, it’s not heard because Paxton Lawson, my best friend’s older brother, is kissing me, silencing my surprise as he threads his fingers into my hair and holds me too close.
A contradicting set of thoughts blare like a horn as his lips move over mine with enough aggression and purpose to bruise my mouth. The heat of his touch soaks into me, and the woodsy scent of pine and cedar with undertones that are equal parts sweet and spicy tickles my nose and memories.
I shove against his chest at the same time I take a step back, my eyes wide and my temper high. I don’t even know how to process what I’m feeling, and I’m the poster child for feelings. My mom taught me how to label and express my emotions before I knew how to ride a bike. I wasn’t allowed to use generic terms like angry because it was too overarching. I had to be specific because my mom believes that anger is the cause of other raw feelings that are harder and scarier to face. But right now, I’m clinging to anger like it’s a lifeboat because it’s safer and because I knew coming here was a bad idea, and still, I came.
“Sorry,” Pax says, but his apology lacks sincerity as he looks across the partygoers again, no doubt looking for Candace.
“Does it really matter what she thinks?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in one pull. It’s not a conscious decision, but a reaction as insecurities and deception climb their way to the front of my thoughts. They would. Self-deprecating thoughts are always the winners in emotional sprints.
He shrugs one shoulder, still eyeing the crowds. “She wants to play jealous games. I’ll play.”
“Jealousy means you care. You either care, or you don’t. You’re either jealous, or you’re not.”
His blue eyes meet mine. “This was to show her I’m not jealous,” he says. “She tagged me in a photo of her kissing Derek fucking Paulson, thinking I’d give a shit, and now I just kissed you to show her I don’t care.”
“You realize that what you just explained is the very definition of jealousy, right?”
“Call it whatever you want. I needed to prove a point, and I did.”
“So this is what you had in mind? I come out to a party in the middle of nowhere and spend my Friday night trying to make Candace jealous and share a really awkward and bad kiss with my best friend’s brother?”
He frowns. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you trip.”
“Oh, that’s okay, your teeth caught me.”
He laughs, but his gaze falls, his cheeks a light pink that reveals his embarrassment before his eyes do. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act like a caveman.”
“I hope not because even girls like Candace don’t find that attractive.”
His grin stretches, and his gaze wanders, but this time, he doesn’t seem to focus on anything or anyone, more like he can’t manage to look at me because mortification has just been sewn into the tapestry of our friendship. “Who was that asshat that was talking to you?” he asks before I can think of something to say to overcome the awkwardness and cover it so we can both move on and forward because feeling embarrassed around Paxton will guarantee to lead to nothing but additional anxiety and regret.
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “I don’t know anyone here but you and…” I don’t say her name. It’s not necessary.
Paxton nods. “Yeah, me either.” He places his hands on his hips. “We should probably go. I’ve got to get some sleep for tomorrow’s game.”
I nod. “Good idea. Rae would stop talking to me for a week if she knew you were here and I let you stay.”
“In that case, do you want me to take a picture so you don’t have to deal with her for a full seven days?” He reaches for his pocket like he’s going to withdraw his phone.
I scoff. “Let’s go.” I search for a trash can for the cup I never filled. Pax reads my thoughts and places it at the top of the stack.
“You just ruined my theory for taking the second cup,” I tell him.
“You have a theory?”
“Had,” I clarify.
“I should probably let you in on a secret,” he leans closer, the subtle hint of his cologne hitting my nose. “The cups are knocked over all of the time. People just restack them.”
I frown, knowing he’s right but preferring to live in this fictitious cave a little longer.
“And to really shock you, I know plenty of people who rinse the cups with the hose and reuse them for each party because their cheap asses don’t want to buy new ones.”
I cringe. “A garden hose?”
“It would take a long time with the sink. Plus, they can dry in the sun.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re the cheap ass.”
He laughs. “Think about it, it’s a win-win. I create less garbage, and I save money.”
“I’m never drinking out of another cup at your house.”
“Only the party cups.” He winks.
“That is so disgusting.”
He shrugs. “Alcohol cleans everything, right?”
“So I’ve heard.”
I walk beside Paxton through the small house, relieved the night was brief. I’m not entirely sure I actually like college part
ies, but tonight promised to be strange, and boy did it deliver.
Outside, the air is cool against my skin, and everything smells wet. I love that smell. Many people don’t like the Pacific Northwest because of how much it rains, but I find it comforting. There’s something cleansing and hopeful about the rain, and I love the fact that it allows everything to be so green and beautiful. My grandparents on my mom’s side retired to Florida, and my parents sent Dylan and me there one summer. It rained and stormed nearly every day and created hordes of mosquitoes and humidity so thick it was hard to breathe even while in their neighborhood pool—that summer nearly destroyed my relationship with the rain.
“What in the actual fuck?”
The words have Paxton stopping, which triggers me to stop and turn around as well. Candace is clomping down the stairs in a pair of platform heels and a mini skirt that distracts me for a couple of seconds because it’s super cute. I nearly miss the death glare she’s aimed at my head that makes me feel the innate need to duck.
Pax must sense it, too, because he takes a sideways step so that he’s in front of me like a shield. “We’re leaving.”
“You followed me here, and you’re making out with your kid sister’s friend? Is she even potty trained? God, you’re so childish, Paxton. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”
Potty trained? My face puckers with her insult.
“Childish was you tagging me on your social media while kissing fuckface. Childish was burning my fucking clothes. Childish was throwing my computer out the window when you got jealous of my older sister. Don’t talk to me about being childish.”
Suddenly the insult being slung at me seems insignificant in comparison to his laundry list.
“You ignored me,” she fires back. “You acted like the past three years meant nothing to you.”