Hate the Game

by Renshaw, Winter

“Sure.”

  Talon retrieves our notebooks from his bag and hands them over. “Quick question, though, before we start.”

  “Okay …”

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  Just when I was beginning to think that he wasn’t all that bad, that I could tolerate him for the rest of the semester, he goes and pulls this.

  Was that an act earlier? Some kind of stunt he pulled to make me think he was a decent human being under all that ego? Real or fake, one thing’s for sure: he’s still a man on a mission.

  And old mission.

  One he’s never abandoned no matter how futile the journey has gotten.

  Without hesitation, I shove my things into my bag, unzip the hoodie, and hand it back. The cool air blankets my skin but I don’t feel a thing.

  “What?” he asks.

  I try to speak again, but I’m at a loss for words.

  “I’m really going to need you to accept the fact that I’m not going to date you,” I say. “I’m sorry, but you’re not my type. I don’t know how else to make that clear to you. In fact, you’re my anti-type.”

  “Is that even a thing?” He rises from the ground, his height forming a tower that cocoons the two of us.

  “My point is,” I say, arms crossed, “you have to stop asking me out. My answer’s never going to change.”

  “One date,” the relentless son of a bitch has the nerve to say. “One date and you’ll never have to see me again.”

  “Look, I appreciate that you like a good challenge and you like to win and all that, but this victory isn’t going to happen for you, so maybe refocus your sights on someone else?”

  His expression twists. “Someone else?”

  “I could close my eyes and point to any girl walking past us right now and I’m one-hundred percent sure you could ask her out and she’d say yes,” I tell him. “Win-win for both of you.”

  “Someone else?” he repeats harder, as though my suggestion disgusts him. “Irie, there is no one else. There’s only you. There’s only ever been you.”

  His words are a balm to the hammering chaos happening inside me right now—my heart has gone off its rails, my stomach is two seconds from upheaving itself, and my mind is thinking all sorts of thoughts that contradict and make zero sense … and then he goes and says something like that.

  There’s only you. There’s only ever been you.

  I dated someone just like him once upon a time.

  Dashingly handsome. Charismatic. Mr. Popular. Made me feel like it was just the two of us no matter where we were or how many people were around. Said all the right things. Did all the right things. Made the kind of promises a person could believe with every fiber of their soul.

  I loved him harder than I’d ever loved anyone or anything in my life, with an intensity so dialed up it was as magical as it was terrifying.

  But I was younger then. Too young to understand how something so beautiful could turn so ugly in the blink of an eye.

  That boy might be long gone.

  But the scars are permanent, everlasting.

  And when I see Talon, I can’t help but see the guy who came before him as they’re cut from the very same cloth.

  When I make a mistake, I never repeat it. Ever.

  “Do me a favor and don’t say stuff like that again, okay?” Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I head for the sidewalk that leads to the bus stop. “Bye, Talon.”

  “Irie,” he calls after me.

  But I don’t stop.

  Chapter 6

  Talon

  I stare across the classroom Friday morning, restless and unsettled as my knee bounces. Irie showed up a minute late to recitation and took a seat at a table in the front—never mind the fact that there were three empty chairs at mine.

  My eyes scan over the words on the test before me, but nothing makes sense.

  I stayed up until almost one in the morning last night studying on my own and reading those two chapters in the textbook, but concentration came at a premium. I couldn’t stop thinking about Irie. I couldn’t stop replaying our time together at the library.

  Everything was going well. I was making her laugh. Getting her to flirt back with me for the first time ever …

  I even gave her my favorite hoodie when we went outside because it was either that or call it a night, and I was just getting her warmed up.

  But of course, the second I asked her out, it was game over.

  I don’t even think it’s fair to say I advanced the ball.

  My sexy enigma turned into this woman with cloudy eyes and crossed arms and an edge in her voice that wasn’t there before.

  Over the years, any time I’d ask her out, she’d give me a polite yet casual “no thanks” or come up with another way to gently let me down. But last night brought out a side of her I’ve never seen before.

  I called out for her as she stalked off, but she ignored me.

  And so I let her go.

  Figured I was the last person she wanted chasing after her, especially since it was me she was running away from.

  “If you’re finished with your quizzes, bring them up here.” A dark-haired TA in acid-wash jeans and a white Guns-n-Roses t-shirt is perched on the edge of a metal desk in front of a white board. Tattoos cover her fingers and the underside of her left forearm, and a silver hoop protrudes from her septum. She looks like she doesn’t give a fuck about a damn thing (besides anthropology, I guess).

  I blaze through the multiple-choice questions as fast as I can. I’ve always read it’s best to go with your gut instinct on those rather than re-read and second guess and talk yourself out of your original answers.

  I move onto the essay questions next, which are easier than I anticipated, most of them requiring nothing more than a few sentences at most.

  When I get to the last one, I laugh to myself. Irie was right. Longmire didn’t ask us about what it means to be a human. He probably didn’t want to read through a hundred-plus psychobabble bullshit answers, and I don’t blame him. I’m sure he’d much rather be catching waves.

  Irie is one of the first to turn in her quiz. I scribble my final sentence and make my way to the front of the room, passing her table. She doesn’t notice me. Or she pretends not to.

  As soon as the final quiz has been submitted, the TA rehashes the week’s lessons and dives deeper into biological anthropology, which conveniently happens to be her focus of study. My attention waxes and wanes and veers toward Irie. Or, rather, the back of her head—her shiny, glossy strands ironed straight and curtaining down to the middle of her back. She’s facing forward, jotting down notes in her rose gold notebook while everyone around her is clacking away on MacBook keyboards.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, not once or twice, but three times, and I slide it halfway out to check my texts.

  There’s a party Saturday night.

  At the Westbrook house—the twelve-bedroom three-story on Villanueva full of frat boy rejects—guys who partied too hard to stay in their fraternity’s good graces.

  Apparently my presence has been requested.

  And requested.

  And requested …

  Exhaling, I slide my phone back and ignore the series of vibrations that follow.

  “Okay. I’m going to let you guys out a little early today,” the TA says. Within milliseconds the group collects their things in one giant tandem effort.

  Fucking freshmen.

  Irie takes her time though. Shockingly, she doesn’t have a plane to catch this time. I wonder if she’s done with classes for the day—like me. In a perfect world, we’d be shooting the shit together all afternoon—preferably between the sheets … or on the kitchen counter … or in the back of an empty classroom if we’re feeling particularly frisky.

  Someday.

  Someday soon …

  Rising, I shift my bag over my shoulder and head to her table, but she’s oblivious as she heads out.

  I manage to catch up to her half
way down the hall.

  “Irie, wait up,” I place my hand on her shoulder to stop her.

  She spins around, peering up at me through a fringe of dark lashes. “Hi.”

  I want to ask her about last night—make sure we’re still cool. But before I get a chance to say anything, I’m shoulder-checked by Vin Chalmers, a second-string running back who legitimately believes he’s God’s gift to football.

  Some people fake it ‘til they make it.

  And some of us don’t have to.

  “Tal, you going to Westbrook Saturday?” he asks, lifting his meaty hand to give me a low five. “It’s going to be lit. A bunch of A-Chi-O girls are going to be there.”

  He traces his tongue along his square teeth and flashes a confident grin in an unnatural shade of ice-white.

  I turn to Irie—or where she was—and find an empty space.

  A void.

  Peering across the packed hallway, I find her already yards away, completely out of reach in every way.

  “So you in or not?” he asks.

  Westbrook parties are notoriously and historically epic. Would I rather be spending my Saturday night showing Irie Davenport the time of her life? Of-fucking-course I would. But seeing as how that’s not an option yet, I don’t see any harm in having myself a good time.

  “Yeah, man,” I say. “I’m in.”

  “Oh my gawd, Talon Gold!” A girl with comically huge everything—tits, teeth, ass—trots toward me, her bony arms extended. “I haven’t seen you foreverrrr! How the hell are you?”

  She wraps me in a strawberry-mint scented embrace and squeezes me like a life preserver in a typhoon, bouncing and rubbing her body against every part of me.

  Fuck if I can remember her name.

  Pretty sure she blew me in a bathroom at a house party sophomore year, but that was lightyears ago. If I recall correctly, she threw a fit when I wouldn’t fuck her so I slid my hands up her mini skirt, shoved her panties to the side, and fingered her until she came.

  Twice.

  “You going to the Westbrook party this weekend?” she asks as she releases her hold on me, blinking her oversized lashes, which I’m pretty sure are just as fake as the rest of her.

  “Of course he is,” Vin interjects. He studies my lackluster expression with a mix of curiosity and intrigue, though he doesn’t bring it up.

  “Awesome.” She grins even bigger, her Chiclet veneers blinding and distractingly white. “I’ll see you there.”

  As soon as she’s out of earshot, Vin shakes his head. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so gonna hit that this weekend.”

  I scoff. “Nah.”

  “You don’t want that?” he asks, eyes wild.

  “Nope.”

  Vin cocks his head to the side, shooting me a look like I’m some kind of crazy bastard. “Fine. You don’t want her, I’d be happy to take that off your hands.”

  “All yours.”

  “All right, man. Imma cut you loose,” he says, walking backwards and pointing at me with finger pistols. “See you Saturday.”

  I give him a nod and head out, not giving the party another thought the second I hit the sidewalk. I’ll go. I’ll make an appearance, have myself a decent time, and give the people what they want—stories, pictures, and photo ops.

  But come Monday, it’s back on.

  Chapter 7

  Irie

  I’m on my third Corona and fully feeling it. Pretty sure my blood is ninety-eight percent hops and barley at this point, but whatever. It feels good to be in the moment and not feel anything but the Velcro stickiness of my shoes against dirty floors.

  “What are you doing?” My best friend, Brynn, stumbles into the kitchen of this godforsaken party house we’re in Saturday night.

  House parties have never been my thing.

  I’m more of a chill-in-the-corner-of-a-hip-lounge-and-sip-cocktails kind of girl, but some guy Brynn’s been pining after since spring semester last year invited her and she wanted a wingman, and so here I am.

  “Are you … redecorating?” Brynn stands back, slack-jawed and gawking.

  “Organizing,” I say, admiring my work. “Things are more pleasing to the eye when they’re grouped by item type and color.”

  I gaze along the messy counter which houses dozens if not hundreds of beer cans, wine bottles, and White Claws, all of them neatly sorted by flavor and color, their labels facing front like pint-sized soldiers.

  “Now I’m going to rearrange their cutlery drawer because I don’t know how the hell they find anything in—” I begin to say until Brynn grabs my hand.

  “Irie,” she says, head tucked down and eyes unfocused. She’s far more drunk than me, but it doesn’t stop her from attempting to be my voice of reason. “We’re here to have a good time and there are twelve bachelors who live here. You think they give a shit if they can’t find a butter knife?”

  “You’re here to have a good time,” I remind her. “I’m just … here.”

  “Stop being a wet blanket.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I love Brynn, but I resent any opinions that suggest in order to have a good time you have to be a cloned sheep in a massive herd.

  She shrugs before bracing herself against me. “I’m sorry, but you’re being a total lame ass right now. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve only seen you let loose twice. Twice, Irie! And you know what? I freakin’ love you to death, but that other girl was pretty dope and she deserves to come out and play … especially tonight.”

  “What’s so special about tonight?”

  “Um, the entire PVU football team is here for one,” she says.

  My stomach drops, no … plummets.

  “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” I say.

  In a flash of a second, I’m suddenly feeling extremely sober.

  She laughs. “Why would I? You hate football. I didn’t think you’d care.”

  Fair point.

  I love Brynn and she’s my best friend in the entire world, but she’s also a diehard PVU Tigers fan and nothing in the world could change her mind. Her parents went to PVU. Her grandparents went to PVU. Her older brothers too. They’re the most fanatical family I’ve ever known—they could even put some of the families back home in Missouri to shame with their extensive collection of fan gear.

  A group of burly, muscled guys enter the kitchen one after another and I hold my breath, waiting for one of them to be Talon. I exhale when I scan their faces and don’t find his.

  “Hey, guys,” Brynn says, tossing her raven waves over her left shoulder before settling behind the kitchen island and designating herself bartender. “What are we drinking tonight?”

  The men—whom I recognize as Tigers—call out their orders and like a seasoned natural, she hands out drinks—and flirts. The guys seem to enjoy it enough, though I suppose it gets old after a while … always having girls throw themselves at you, having people notice you everywhere you go.

  They leave the room, drinks in hand, and Brynn is all smiles as she mouths, “OH MY GOD.”

  Pretty sure they just made her entire college career just now.

  “Where’s Nick?” I ask her. “The guy who invited you?”

  She checks her watch, tapping through some text messages. “Oh. He just texted me and said he’s here. Somewhere. I should go find him.”

  “Yeah. You should.” I wink at her before returning to my pet project. “Since that’s why we came.”

  Organizing the cutlery drawer takes all of four minutes, and once I’m finished, I exhale, take a generous sip of my drink, and lean back against the island counter. The room around me sways. Or maybe I’m swaying. It’s all the same at this point.

  Pulsing and pounding music from another room rattles the window above the kitchen sink, and when I glance up, I fully expect to see my reflection staring back at me—only it isn’t me.

  Gasping, I grip the counter’s edge an
d spin on my heels, coming almost face-to-face with none other than Talon.

  His full mouth curls at one end. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Composing myself, I reach for my drink and stand back as he scans the array of beverages I’ve recently organized.

  “You do this?” he asks, pointing.

  “Maybe.”

  Talon smirks before selecting a Corona. He twists the cap and tosses it in an open-topped garbage can nearby. “Have to admit, kind of surprised to see you here. This doesn’t seem like your kind of scene.”

  “It isn’t.” I shrug one shoulder before taking a sip.

  “Then why are you here?”

  I don’t see how that’s any of his business, but since he asked …

  “For a friend,” I say. “She asked me to come.”

  “And then she ditched you?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking into a party and finding something to do on my own.”

  He scratches at his temple. “It’s just that most girls travel in pairs or packs or whatever.”

  “I’m not most girls.”

  “I know,” he says without hesitation.

  There’s a vibration rattling in my chest, and it takes me a second to realize someone simply turned the music up.

  Talon keeps his gaze trained on me and while he’s distanced himself a few feet away, the walls around us continue to close in.

  Heat prickles at my hairline and my skin flashes hot. With my stomach in knots, I drop my drink on the counter and make a beeline for the back door in desperate search for air.

  The metal door slams behind me and I find myself on a small wooden deck with rotted floorboards and party lights hanging from above. Empty and over-turned red plastic cups litter the area around me and if I were feeling better, I’d stack them up and throw them away.

  I can’t stand a mess. I can’t stand disorganization or chaos.

  They say a frenzied childhood will do that to a person.

  I take a seat on one of the steps leading to the back yard and rest my elbows on my knees.

  Deep breaths …

  The creak of the door demands my attention a second later, and I turn back to find Talon standing in the doorway, his expansive frame blocking the light from the inside of the house and framing him in an ethereal glow at the same time.