Hate the Game

by Renshaw, Winter

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Just needed some fresh air,” I say. The night air is verging on bone-chilling, at least by SoCal standards, and I’m not sure how long I’ll last out here, but I’m quite certain if I hadn’t left the kitchen, I’d be standing in a pool of my own vomit right now.

  “Mind if I have a seat?” he asks.

  “Are you usually this polite when no one’s looking?” I ask, scooting over.

  “What do you mean?” He takes the spot beside me. The steps are narrow, maybe three or four feet wide if I had to guess, and our outer thighs are pressed against one another.

  I rest my head against my hand, turning to look at him. “You have a reputation. And it isn’t a nice one.”

  He laughs though his nose. “What have you heard?”

  “That you’re a dick,” I say, recalling the time I watched him body slam another guy outside the Econ building. It was the Monday after a devastating Tiger loss and the guy was talking shit to Talon about some fumbled catch. “And I’ve seen you in action, so don’t chalk it up to rumors.”

  “I’m only a dick when I have to be.”

  “No one has to be a dick.”

  “Maybe in your world.” He glances into the yard, which is long and deep and turns into a pitch-black void halfway back.

  “Please.” I roll my eyes. If the man only knew what my world was like and how many times I’d have loved to be a dick to people …

  A guy and girl emerge from behind a tree in the dark distance. He zips his fly. She wipes her mouth on the side of her hand. They stumble off, disappearing around the side of the house hand in hand.

  Ah, young love …

  I heard a girl talking once a few years back. She claimed she blew Talon at a party and as soon as he got his, he pushed her off him and refused to so much acknowledge her the rest of the night.

  Maybe he felt the need to shoulder check the asshole talking shit about him after a bad game, but there’s no excuse for being cruel to a girl whose only crime was worshipping his cock.

  The door behind us swings open and slams shut, and the weight of heavy footsteps reverberates across the worn decking.

  “Talon, there you are, man,” a guy’s voice says.

  I don’t turn around, I stare into the dark void ahead.

  “Been looking all over for you,” he adds. “You wanna come in? The A-Chi-O girls are here and we’re about to do some body shots. Got a sexy redhead in there with your name on her. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  Talon is hesitant at first, but he remains planted beside me. “Nah, man. I’m taking it easy tonight.”

  I give him a slow side glance.

  “What? No way. You sure?” his buddy asks.

  Talon waves him away. “Yep, I’m good. I’ll catch you in a bit though.”

  His friend leaves and once again it’s just the two of us.

  “I hope you didn’t do that for my sake,” I tell him.

  “You really think I’d rather be in there sucking Patron from some freshman’s belly button than sitting out here with you? Under the stars?”

  “Duh.”

  He brushes his shoulder against mine. “You’re out of your mind, Irie Davenport.”

  No one ever calls me by my full name and in general, I find it a bit strange, but for some reason, coming from his lips with his crushed velvet voice vibrating in my ear, it sends my stomach into a somersault.

  Silence settles between us, but in my defense, I don’t know how to transition from that. He’s pouring on the charm, trying so damn hard to get in my good graces, and I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t enjoy it—at least a little bit.

  Half of me wants to send him inside to the waiting human shot glass sorority chick.

  The other half of me wants to linger in this moment, under the stars, beside the warmth that radiates off his body and onto mine.

  “You know this house used to belong to the mayor,” he says. “Like back in the nineteen twenties when this town was founded. It served as city hall for a while, when the first one burned down. And during the Vietnam War, it was a sort of halfway house for returning soldiers. In the eighties, I heard it was a brothel or something.”

  I shoot him a look. “Random.”

  “Thought you were into houses and all that,” he says. “With your interior design major.”

  He isn’t wrong.

  “How did you know all of that?” I ask. “About the history of the house? Did you Google it when I wasn’t looking?”

  “My stepdad owns the place,” he says. “He bought it back in the nineties when it was at auction. Fixed it up enough to turn it into a place he could rent to college kids. My mom wanted to do a full restore, make it look just like it did when it was first built. She’s kind of an interior design junkie herself. But Mark wouldn’t have it. He wanted to make a quick buck because that’s what he does.”

  “Your family owns this house?”

  “My stepdad does. Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you live here?” I ask.

  “You saw the current state of the inside, right? Would you live here?”

  “No.”

  “I rest my case,” he says.

  “Doesn’t your stepdad care that this beautiful house is being completely destroyed?”

  “As long as it’s padding his bank account, he couldn’t give a shit less.” He glances up at one of the lit windows on the second floor. The shadows of two people behind the sheer curtain leave very little to the imagination.

  The last time I hooked up with anyone was almost a year ago, when I briefly dated this theater major who unironically turned out to be a bit too dramatic for my liking in the end. I’d never seen a man cry so much over everything. Sex with him was slow and meticulous, and I swear he tried to make it look the way it does in film and on television—like softcore porn. But it got to the point where it was distracting, and sometimes all I wanted was to fuck and to be fucked.

  But those slow and sensual Oscar-worthy kisses …

  I miss the hell out of those.

  “So your mom is into interior design?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation neutral and non-sexual in any way possible.

  “Yeah, she actually used to have her own design firm,” he says. “Back before she met Mark anyway. He’s a builder and real estate developer and after they got married, she closed her freelance firm and worked with him on all his projects.”

  “Nice,” I say.

  “I swear every time I go home the house looks different. Hell, she even changes up my bedroom at least once a year.”

  I shrug. “I get it. Sometimes it gets old looking at the same things all the time. It’s fun to switch things up.”

  “Yeah, but my room?”

  “Maybe it reminds her of something she doesn’t want to be reminded of?”

  “Such as?” he asks.

  “I don’t know … maybe when she looks at it, she thinks about her baby boy who’s all grown up and maybe that makes her sad?”

  Talon chuffs through his nose. “Pretty sure my mom hasn’t felt a damn thing in at least fifteen years. Woman’s got a whole cabinet full of shit that helps her not be sad.”

  He’s quiet for a second, contemplative almost.

  And then the door behind us creaks open.

  The footsteps that follow are lighter. I don’t have to turn around to know it isn’t one of his linebacker buddies this time.

  “Talon? Oh my God! Hey,” a girl says. He turns to face her. I stare ahead as her over-the-top energy invades the crisp night air. “Coley said I’d find you out here. You should come in and do a shot with me for old times’ sake!”

  From my periphery, I see her manicured hand curl around his rounded shoulder as she crouches down.

  The silence between the two of them is cringeworthy—at least for her—and I can almost feel her flittering glittery mood fading in real time.

  “Y … your friend can come too?” she offers, voice broken and conf
idence dashed.

  “I’m good,” I say, keeping my attention on the blackness ahead.

  “Yeah, I’m good too,” Talon says.

  “You sure?” the girl asks.

  The weight of Talon’s attention blankets me. “Positive.”

  Without saying another word the girl traipses inside, her heels clunking across the wobbly deck boards. The door creaks open and slams a second later. I almost feel sorry for her.

  Almost.

  “You didn’t have to do that for me,” I tell him.

  He scoffs, taking a sip of his beer.

  “These are your glory days,” I add. “You should enjoy them. Take full advantage. You shouldn’t be pretending to be annoyed by all this attention all because you’re trying to impress some girl who doesn’t even want to be impressed.”

  “Not trying to impress you.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, laughing. “You’re a liar.”

  “All right.” He nudges his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I am. Just a little.”

  “Well it ends here, tonight,” I say.

  “Just like that?” he asks. “And just because you say it does?”

  “Pretty much.” I stand, stretching my legs. A small shiver works its way through me and from here, the house looks warm and glowing and a million times more inviting than it did before.

  Talon rises, towering over me with his eyes locked on mine. “Why do you hate me, Irie?”

  “Just because you’re not my type and I don’t want to date you doesn’t mean that I hate you, Talon. I don’t even know you—how can I hate someone I don’t know?”

  “How do you know I’m not your type if you won’t take the time to get to know me?” he asks.

  Fair enough. “Maybe I don’t know you, but I know enough about you to know you’re not my type.”

  “Fuck types.”

  “Says the guy who’s fucked half the school.” I fold my arms and glance down. That was a little harsh even if it’s true.

  “That’s what you think?” he asks.

  I challenge myself to meet his accusatory stare, to own my stance. “I told you earlier … you have a reputation. I’ve heard girls talk about hooking up with you. I’ve heard about the way you treat anyone who so much as thinks they might have a chance with you. Forgive me if I’m trying to steer clear of your warpath.”

  “Irie, you are the reason for that warpath,” he says, his tone callous and his jaw flexing.

  “So I’m supposed to be flattered? You treat other girls like crap because they’re not me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “You’re oversimplifying.”

  “Am I though?” I angle my head to the side, my mouth twisted as I fight a smirk. Maybe I’m flirting. Maybe I’m also making a point.

  Talon is looking at me like he’s two seconds from devouring me—my mouth specifically. His tongue wets his full lips and his left hand tightens at his sides, like he has to refrain from allowing himself to touch me.

  There’s a lot of clout standing before me.

  An insane amount of restraint.

  He’s mere inches from the only thing he wants—the only conquest he can’t have—and it’s physically torturing him.

  To wield this kind of control over someone so powerful is a sensation unlike any I’ve experienced before … and in an unexpected turn of events, my nipples harden, my sex tingles, and my lips swell with a curious ache.

  In my defense, I’m not normally aroused by torturing people.

  In his defense, he’s not normally used to reoccurring rejection.

  This is quite the standoff we have going.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  I look him up and down. “In.”

  “You cold?”

  He’s standing here in a gray V-neck t-shirt and ripped jeans. He has nothing to offer me but his arms and as cold as it is tonight, it’s tempting.

  But I won’t let it get to that.

  I climb the top stair step and make my way across the deck, walking backwards as my hands clasp. “Go have fun, Talon. It’s a Saturday night. Do some body shots. Find a pretty little sorority girl and give her a night to remember. You’re wasting your time with me.”

  I head back into the house before he has a chance to speak. Once in, I take a White Claw from the now semi-organized kitchen counter and follow the music, disappearing into some room with a sound system so loud it drowns out every last thought in my head—which is a good thing.

  Because all of my thoughts?

  They’re about him.

  Chapter 8

  Talon

  I lean against the wooden railing of the deck, watching the party house swallow Irie up as she heads in. Exhaling, my breath turns to clouds. No wonder no one’s outside tonight. It’s cold as fuck. Sitting next to her for the past twenty minutes, I’ve been so transfixed I haven’t given the temperature a second thought.

  The music pumps from inside, the pulsing baseline of some Avicii song rattling the windows every four seconds. I’m going to have to head in. I’m going to have to slap on a shitfaced grin, pretend there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and act like I’m not searching for Irie every time a pretty girl struts by.

  Scraping my ego off the floor, I make my way inside, which now feels like a goddamned sauna. There are easily twice as many drunk bastards as there was before and it’s so fucking loud I can’t hear myself think—which is probably a good thing.

  I grab a can of Miller Lite from the fridge since the ones on the counter are lukewarm. God forbid one of these pricks spends Daddy’s money on a bag of ice to turn the sink into a cooler trough.

  Amateurs.

  Pulling the tab, I lift the can to my mouth and finish the beer in three swigs before deciding to follow it up with another.

  “Whoa, dude, take it easy.” Vin appears out of nowhere, slapping my back with a thick palm. “The night is young, my friend.”

  “No shit, moron. Gotta get this party started.” I chug the second beer like a fucking man on a mission before grabbing a third—though this one will be more of a prop. I don’t want to get sloppy drunk because that’s a rookie move and no one ever looks good falling down and knocking into people. Besides, the last thing I need are four-hundred eighty-eight pics of myself shitfaced all over social media.

  I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

  Vin chuckles before plucking a room-temperature Corona from the counter. A second later, a pack of collar-popped guys come in, cases of Busch Light on their shoulders.

  I get the hell out of there and head to the front room—a gargantuan space that once served as the mayor’s formal receiving room, complete with a hand-carved fireplace surround and wooden marble mantel. My mother refused to let my stepfather tear out anything original to the house. I think she still dreams of fixing it up someday, but the Westcott house is situated along Tiger Way … nestled between frat houses, sorority McMansions, and college bus stops. No one under the age of twenty-three is ever going to want anything to do with this house.

  I find an empty section on a sunken plaid sofa by the window and take a seat. It takes all of three seconds for people to flock toward me. Some make it obvious. Some not so much.

  “Hi.” A pretty brunette with lips the color of ox blood perches on the arm beside me. “You’re Talon, right?”

  I recognize her now.

  A cheerleader.

  In high school, I chased every little short-skirted ponytail who so much as glanced in my direction. In college, the cheerleaders were notorious for fucking their way through the entire team, first string to second, running back to lineman.

  “Bro, there you are.” Vin ambles toward us, his thick mitts filled with tequila in mismatched shot glasses. A curly-haired blonde is behind him, a bowl of lime wedges and salt shaker in hand.

  They clear a small section of coffee table in front of me and start handing out liquor and limes.

  “Saved the biggest one for you, man.” Vin hands
me the tallest shot glass.

  I force a smile before accepting it. The girl hands me a lime and then reaches for my arm, turning my wrist before bending to give it a lick, slow and seductive.

  I jerk it away before her tongue contacts my flesh. “Nah, I’m good.”

  She recoils, her smile fading like I’ve burst some fantasy bubble of hers, and I toss the tequila back in one go, no chaser, letting myself feel the burn as it glides down my throat.

  A group of girls walk past the room, making their way to the stairs. I glance up, searching for Irie. But of course she’s not amongst them, and I should have known.

  She’s never been a pack animal.

  “Talon, mind if I get a pic?” A girl with tits up to her chin squeezes behind the sofa, her phone camera readied as she positions herself behind me. “Smile!”

  I do my thing as she snaps not one, not two, but five fucking pictures, and then she skips away like a giddy kid who just met Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.

  My body sinks into the worn sofa, deeper, harder, heavier, as the alcohol hits my blood. I’m warm and numb and completely convinced I can suffer through the rest of his evening … until I spot a guy and a sandy-haired girl on the other side of the room essentially fucking with their clothes on in a leather wingback chair.

  For five solid seconds, I see Irie. I see a horny bastard with his hands on her ass. I see a jackass tasting the lips that should only belong to me. And I see her curved hips grinding against a dude that will never be able to satisfy her the way I could.

  Then I see black.

  With my jaw clenched, I rise from my spot and storm across the room.

  They’re oblivious to me …

  … until I grab his arm and all but yank him out of the chair.

  “The fuck is your problem, man?” he asks, wild-eyed.

  Irie scrambles off his lap—and it’s then that I realize it isn’t Irie.

  It isn’t Irie at all.

  Just some girl with the same hair.

  She covers her swollen lips with her hand and cowers in the corner as her boyfriend gives me a non-verbal what-for. His hands are lifted and he’s giving me his best attempt at a dirty look, but his eyes are the color of terror.