Hate the Game

by Renshaw, Winter

  My stomach somersaults, but I play it cool. “Lucky me.”

  “Yeah.” He laughs through his nose, his perfect white teeth flashing as he grins. “Lucky you.”

  Chapter 2

  Talon

  I’ve never been a believer in bullshit like fate or destiny, but after the way the stars aligned this morning, placing Irie Davenport not only in my sight but directly beside me—I’m willing to reconsider my stance.

  “We should probably exchange numbers,” I say to her as our anthro class is in the midst of a chaotic freshmen dismissal. “You know, since we’re partners …”

  I refuse to use the word “study buddy.”

  It’s just not sexy.

  And partner has better … connotations.

  Irie flips to a page in the back of her little pink notebook and scribbles something before tearing the page, folding it into thirds, and handing it over. A second later, she slings her messenger bag over her lithe shoulder and tucks a strand of silky caramel-blonde hair behind one ear, revealing a simple golden stud. It’s unpretentious and unexpected—much like her.

  “Wait,” I say after unfolding and scanning the paper. “This is your email.”

  “Yep.” Her expression is bland and indifferent, and it’s the same one she’s been giving me for the last four years, but her violet eyes flicker with life. With all her years of practice, she’s never been able to master the art of the true poker face. There’s a part of her—however miniscule it might be—that wants me just as much as I want her.

  I see it.

  I fucking feel it.

  And if I feel it, I know Irie does too.

  I tend to be numb to most things, most of the time, but not this. Not her. Not us—or rather, what we could be.

  Our tension has been ripe since day one, so palpable you could slice it clean with an obsidian knife. Why she tries to fight it and deny it is the one thing I’ve yet to figure out.

  For years, I’ve been trying to get her number.

  And for years, she’s rebuffed me eight ways from Sunday.

  “What if I need you right away?” I ask.

  “Then you’ll send me an email and it’ll go straight to my phone,” she says as she begins to navigate her way down the row.

  Most girls love to be needed.

  Not Irie.

  I grab my shit and follow closely.

  “What if you need me? I don’t always check my email.” It’s the truth, but now that we’re partners, I’m going to have to change that.

  “I won’t need you,” she says when she reaches the end of our row. “I never miss a class.”

  Her hand, soft and delicate with glossy nails the color of the sky, glides down the railing as she makes her way to the lower half of the auditorium. The faint scent of her wildflower perfume catches in her breeze and I steal a generous inhalation, though it hardly satisfies.

  I want to smell it on her skin—warm and brilliant, alive.

  I also want to run my hands along her curves and bury my face between her thighs and hear her soft voice in my ear as her limber body melts beneath mine.

  I want her nails digging so hard into my backside they leave marks for days. Marks I’d earn. Marks I’d deserve …

  I could make her feel so fucking good if she’d just let me.

  One night.

  That’s all I want, all I need with Irie Davenport.

  I want to unwind her, untighten that coiled personality. She’s guarded and private, unlike the other girls who throw themselves at me and the second they’re finished riding my cock, they lie in my arms and tell me their life stories like I give a shit. But Irie is different. She’s not from around here—someone told me she’s from the Midwest—and she’s not an open book.

  She’s a padlocked diary.

  A padlocked diary who wants nothing to do with me.

  “Do you want my email just in case?” I ask, sounding like a schmuck as we pass through the door and into the hall. We’re side by side now but seconds from losing one another in a sea of shoulder-to-shoulder students.

  “If I need it, I’ll look it up in the student directory,” she says.

  “Cool, cool. See you Wednesday,” I say, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.

  Rebuffed again.

  It’s not the first time.

  And it sure as hell won’t be the last.

  But I walk away with a smile the size of Texas and the swell of hope in my chest—no different from the feeling I get when I lead the team onto the field during the opening game of the season.

  In football, when you see an opening, you take it. You hold onto the ball with your life and you run like fucking hell until you score—or at least until you advance the ball.

  I’ve been advancing the ball since the first time I laid eyes on Irie at Collin Holbrook’s house party freshman year, and I’ve been running like hell ever since, but with four months until graduation, the end zone is finally in sight.

  My cock swells in an anticipation of my sweetest victory yet.

  I’m finishing the year with that touchdown.

  Chapter 3

  Irie

  “Aunt Bette, I’m home,” I call as I hang my bag on the back of a kitchen chair. “Brought you dinner from the deli. Got that soup you like.”

  I place the brown paper bag on the counter and trek to the living room to find my great aunt passed out in her recliner while the TV in the corner plays Wheel of Fortune. Well, technically she’s not my great aunt. She’s my mother’s brother’s wife’s aunt … but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter because she’s cool as hell and I’m honored to be related to her in any capacity.

  “Hey,” I say softly, placing my hand on her shoulder until she stirs.

  “Irie. Hi.” She blinks a couple of times. “What time is it?”

  I lower the footrest of her chair, fold her crocheted throw, and help her to the kitchen. At eighty-three and a hair under five feet tall she gets around well enough, but I still like to do anything I can to make her life that much easier.

  Also, it’s kind of why I’m here …

  Four years ago, she offered to pay my college tuition and let me live with her for free—she only asked that I be her caretaker, which mostly consisted of running her errands, getting groceries, preparing basic meals, and maintaining the house inside and out. It was kind of strange at the time because I’d never met my mother’s aunt before. She lived in Southern California and I grew up in middle-of-nowhere Missouri.

  It was a lot to think about at first … committing to four years of living with and caring for a complete stranger.

  But the first time we met, she offered eighteen-year-old me a fuzzy navel wine cooler and told me stories from her stint as a strip club manager in the seventies.

  We’ve kind of been best friends ever since …

  Aunt Bette’s slowed down quite a bit over the last few years, though—particularly over this past winter break, when she spent nearly the entire month of December at the hospital battling a stubborn case of pneumonia. Every waking hour of Winter break was spent by her side, reading her the latest gossip articles from her favorite magazines, discussing her case with the doctor when necessary, sharpening her colored pencils and organizing her adult coloring books so she had something to do when she wasn’t sleeping.

  Fortunately Aunt Bette was more tenacious than the pneumonia, but things were looking dicey for a while.

  “Your dinner’s ready,” I tell her as I lead her into the next room. “Fletcher’s Deli. You’re lucky. Got the last of the Irish potato soup.”

  I get her situated at the table before retrieving her soup and turkey club. Normally I’d make her a quick dinner myself, but I lost track of time at the library tonight.

  “How was your first day back?” she asks as I peel the plastic wrap from her disposable soup spoon. “What classes did you have?”

  “Anthro, Hospitality Design, and Interior Lighting,” I say. “And
they were fine.”

  “Can’t believe you’re almost done.” Aunt Bette smiles to cover the uncertainty in her eyes. “Seems like yesterday you were just starting.”

  She knows I can’t stay here with her forever.

  In four months, I’ll be flying the coop.

  And while I’ve loved our time together—especially since it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like I truly had a home—I can’t stay here forever.

  Last summer, I interned for a local designer named Kira Kepner. Just last month, she contacted me, saying she’s been wanting to open a location up north in Malibu and she thinks I’d be the perfect designer to lead that team.

  I almost choked when she gave me the salary.

  I haven’t told Aunt Bette yet, but I’m going to accept the offer.

  Working for someone like Kira while I build my portfolio and having a cushy income to pay the bills is more than I ever could have dreamed for myself at this point. Most interior design grads start out at the bottom, clawing their way up to prove themselves, all the while dealing with juvenile drama and salty competition and making the kind of money that necessitates a part-time job and a couple of roommates to help pay the rent—at least in this part of the country.

  California isn’t cheap.

  But now that I’ve lived here for almost four years, I can’t imagine living anywhere else, and I sure as hell have no plans to return home.

  Missouri is great if you like farms and cornfields, if you’re into the Chiefs and the Royals and the Cardinals, if you can’t live without friendly folks with Midwestern manners, and if you gravitate toward the idea of living on the same street your whole life and raising a family of five with your high school sweetheart.

  But those have never been my calling.

  I’ve always wanted … something else.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Aunt Bette asks.

  “I had a granola bar on the bus,” I tell her.

  She rolls her eyes before tearing her sandwich in half, placing it on its waxy paper wrap, and sliding it to me. “I’ll be damned if I sit here having a proper meal while you’re wasting away on chocolate chips bars.”

  I take a bite, but only because I know she won’t let it go. “Thank you.”

  I enjoy taking care of Aunt Bette, but sometimes I think she enjoys taking care of me more. She never married, never had kids. I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a daughter. In fact, not long after I moved in, she told me one night over bourbon-spiked coffee that she wished she would’ve known all those years ago what I was going through—both before living with Uncle Michael and Aunt Elizabeth … and after.

  She said she would have moved me out here sooner, would’ve taken me under her wing and given me a real home.

  But it’s okay.

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.

  And at least we have now.

  I finish the rest of my half of Aunt Bette’s sandwich. “I should head back, going to check my email and head to bed early.”

  She snorts. “Well, don’t go to bed too early.”

  “As long as you don’t stay up too late,” I tease her back before disappearing down the hall.

  As soon as I get to my room, I pull my laptop from my bag and connect it to the charger on my desk. I wait for the light to turn green before gathering my hair into a messy ponytail and heading to the bathroom to wash up for bed. When I come back, I change into a faded t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms.

  The shuffling of Aunt Bette’s feet down the hall is followed by the sound of her laughter. She says something else, though I can’t make out the words. She must be on the phone with one of her girlfriends. They always call each other around this time of night, and tomorrow is Bunko day at Sheila Carlisle’s house.

  I carry my laptop to the bed and climb under the covers, opting to check my email before calling it an early night.

  Most students my age are living in campus town apartments, sitting around their kitchen islands shooting the shit with their bestie roommates over takeout pizza, putting their homework aside to catch up on the latest episode of The Bachelorette, helping each other decide whether to swipe left or right on the newest dating app.

  While my college experience living off-campus has been less than typical, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love living with Aunt Bette. She’s my spirit animal.

  And she’s been better to me than anyone ever has—better than I probably deserve if I’m being honest.

  I flip the lid of my laptop open and tap in my password. The screen flashes to life and I double-click on the PVU email icon on my desktop.

  Five new emails.

  I go through them, starting from the bottom. Most of them are campus-wide emails, reminders about deadlines and policies or upcoming events.

  Delete, delete, delete …

  But it’s the last one that catches me by surprise.

  TO: davenport.irie@pvucampusmail.edu

  FROM: gold.talon@pvucampusmail.edu

  SUBJECT: Hey lucky ;)

  MESSAGE: Just touching base … if you ever need to get a hold of me, my number is 555-8851.

  Unimpressed yet indubitably amused, I shut the lid, fling my covers aside, and return the computer to the charger.

  Does he actually believe that knighting me with some stupid nickname and using a wink is the way to my heart? And my God, he must be so proud of himself for finally finding a way to get his number in my hands after all these years.

  I roll my eyes when I return to my bed, the image of Talon high-fiving his football player buddies filling my mind. But that image is quickly replaced with other images—actual ones—of Talon over the years.

  Talon at parties, surrounded by girls.

  Talon’s picture plastered on the front page of the PVU Daily during football season.

  Talon on bus signs, the face of the PVU Tigers.

  Talon eye-fucking me in passing by the campanile last fall … it was so penetrating and intense I lost my train of thought as I was mid-conversation with a friend and almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

  Sliding under my covers, I close my eyes tight and remember the cinnamon scent of his breath against my ear, the undeniable heaviness of his stare. I imagine what his hands—calloused and rough—might feel like in my hair, his thumb tracing my jaw as he claims my mouth like a man who’s been starving for that very kiss his entire life, a man about to make a meal of me.

  My stomach reels and my heart hitches and my skin is hot to the touch.

  Every part of me comes alive when I think of Talon Gold.

  The man is pure sex, power and dominance, and he could give me one hell of a night, I’m sure of it. But my guilty-pleasure reveries are as close as I’ll ever get to letting him have his way with me.

  Just as he has his reasons for wanting me, I have my reasons for not wanting him …

  … and my reasons are rooted deeper than he could possibly begin to understand.

  Chapter 4

  Talon

  “Irie, hey.” I rise from my seat in the back of the auditorium Wednesday morning, making a show of waving her down and getting her attention though we’ve yet to make eye contact.

  Everyone around us stares—at me and at her. Some cruel. Some curious.

  The heat is on. She can’t keep acting like she doesn’t see my little production.

  “Irie, over here,” I say, hands cupped around my mouth.

  She finally glances up, gives the smallest of nods to acknowledge me, and then heads my way.

  “Saved you a seat,” I say when she gets closer. “Figured we should sit together again. You know, since we’re partners or whatever.”

  I offer her a wink, like we have some kind of inside joke now, but I get crickets.

  Irie lets her messenger bag slide off her shoulder before taking the chair to my left. She smells cotton candy sweet with a touch of vanilla and her nails are painted a different color today—the palest of pink. T
he gold studs in her ears from the other day have also been replaced, this time with oversized tortoiseshell hoops.

  I don’t know why I notice these things about her. If it were any other girl, I couldn’t care less. But with Irie, it’s like I’m always trying to see what I can glean from all her little quirks and details.

  Over the years, I’ve watched her style morph from semester to semester. I’ve watched her hair change from platinum to brunette to her natural caramel blonde and back. I’ve watched as she’s drifted from one circle of friends to another—spending her time with economics nerds and English majors one year to the artsy-fartsy designer wannabes the next.

  Sometimes I think she knows exactly who she is.

  Other times I think she hasn’t got a clue.

  She might be surprised to know she isn’t alone in that.

  Some of us are just better at hiding it.

  “You get my email?” I ask, referring to the one I sent on a whim Monday night. It was a desperate move and I fully own that, but after seeing her that morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she smelled like and how her eyes almost smiled every time she looked at me even if her lips were not. I couldn’t stop obsessing over seeing her again … and I let my impatience get the best of me.

  The instant I sent the damn thing I cringed—physically cringed.

  I don’t know what it is about her that throws me off my game every damn time.

  And who the fuck uses terms like “touch base?”

  “Yep,” she says, hunched down as she retrieves her notebook and pen. Everyone else around us has their laptops out, prepped and ready to take notes when class starts in a few minutes, except us.

  “Good deal.” I tap my pen against my notebook, remembering I still have her hot pink one in my bag. I forgot to give it back last time but in my defense, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.

  Professor Longmire flicks the lights off down in front, turning the auditorium dark except for the glow of the projector screen.

  It makes me think of being at the movies, which then makes me think about the fact that I can’t remember the last time I took a girl on an actual date. There was this one chick freshman year … took her to dinner and a movie on Friday night … and by the time Monday rolled around she’d all but broadcasted to the entire school that we were dating—as in boyfriend/girlfriend.