by Eden Butler
For a moment his eyelids narrow and a smile flirts on and off his lips. I hate that look, I hate that he thinks he still knows me, that I’m still the same girl he left a year ago.
Disbelief, surprise, both skim across his face, but when my eyes narrow, Tucker’s face becomes a mask. “You want to bet me that you can finish the Dash?”
“No,” I say, taking a step toward him, my chin lifted and my voice low. “I’m going to win it. Me and the girls. We’re going to win the whole damn thing.”
Tucker’s mouth drops open and for a second I believe that I have finally shocked him, but then he worries his top lip, biting in a thought as though I’ve said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. “Autumn, don’t do this to yourself. I’d hate for you to be humiliated.”
Unperturbed by his slight, I don’t react. “What’s the matter, Tucker? Worried that you’ll be beat by a bunch of girls?”
There is a flash of anger in his eyes. He’s never liked being called out, but he doesn’t lose his temper, not completely. “Fine. If you’re going to be stubborn about it, we’ll bet on it. What’s the wager?”
I try to think of something annoying enough to get a rise out of Tucker. That really is my only agenda, but other than seeing me with another guy, I draw a blank. Then Declan comes back down the steps and the condescending leer stretching Tucker’s lips returns to a glare.
Declan steps behind the maintenance workers carrying their tools to the van in front of the library and both he and Tucker share mutually disdainful scowls. “If you two would like to be alone, I can always leave,” I say, unsurprised at how easily Tucker’s expressions shift with the slightest provocation.
“Nah, McShane, he’s not my type,” Declan says, touching my elbow as he passes us. He doesn’t even bother returning Tucker’s expression and then he walks backward, winking at me. “I’m fond of gingers.”
At Declan’s mild flirting an idea comes to me. Nothing would piss Tucker off more than if I involved the tattooed smart ass.
“If I win,” I say, watching Tucker scowl after Declan, “you have to convince Mullens to set Declan back as wing.” Behind him, Declan looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
Tucker jerks his head around. “What? No way.”
“That’s the deal. We beat you—”
“Why do you care about Declan playing wing?” Tucker interrupts. When he steps into my personal space, I don’t retreat.
The light from the street lamp above makes Tucker’s anger pronounced and sets the fine highlights of his hair to a blonde hue. “That’s none of your business. When we beat you—”
“And the squad.” The harsh light does nothing but amplify his heavy pout. “Me and the squad against you and your little hens.”
I ignore his insult. He’s not worthy of my anger at the moment. “Fine. The squad against us and if we win, Declan gets back his position.”
I can see the cogs working behind his blue eyes and for the first time I notice tiny lines crinkling around his eyelids. He’s clearly annoyed, likely suspicious, but at the moment I don’t care how badly my wager has unsettled him. “When we win, you have to volunteer for the Biddy Auction.”
A heavy weight lowers into my chest and a quick flash of heat flames across my face. He did this on purpose, fully aware how insulting I find that auction. “You can’t be serious.”
“That’s my wager.” Tucker’s smile is wide, a sneer and it takes epic control not to throttle him. “We beat you guys and you and your girls volunteer for the auction.”
“Ava would kill us. You know she’s been trying to have that auction shut down for years.” He doesn’t care, isn’t affected by my outrage. “It’s disgusting, Tucker. Degrading.”
“Maybe so, but it raises a lot of money for the squad and you know the boosters love it.”
“That’s because they’re perverted old men who like seeing women prance around in very little.”
He fakes boredom, gives his shoulders a lazy lift as though he’s certain I’d never agree. “Say what you want, sweetness, but that’s my offer.” Referring to me as ‘sweetness’ is just his way of further insulting me. He knows I hate pet names, especially that one. “Unless you’re not so convinced that you guys can pull it off.”
Ava wouldn’t be the only one I’d have to make peace with once she learned of the bet. She has always called the auction “a slight on feminism.” Sayo, Mollie and Layla would never agree to participate, but if I tell them how smug Tucker is, how convinced he is that we will lose, maybe that innate female pride they are so eager to display at any baiting will have them rallying. At least, I hope so.
Tucker has a stupid little grin on his face, is likely confident that I’ll recoil from his wager. Then an image flashes to me, the last time we ran the Dash. Tucker zoomed ahead of us, his superior laughter echoing past the trees as we struggled for breath, for control through the wet, murky course. He hadn’t waited for me, too consumed with minimizing his time, completely indifferent to his girlfriend miles behind him. I may live to regret it, but I am determined to wipe that stupid grin off Tucker’s face. Consequences be damned.
“Fine, Tucker. It’s a bet.”
SIX
At night, in the courtyard, away from my apartment, the campus is a bed of calm. There is still activity, still the murmur of something beneath the dull hum, but in the courtyard when the stars are bright and the sky inky dark, the campus is quiet.
As a kid, my father took me here some nights. “Twilight picnics” he called them. We’d pack a quick bite, mostly finger foods and small thermoses of warm tea, sometimes cocoa, and we’d lie under the blanket of stars. He’d point out constellations, tell me fantastic stories of ancient Irish knights, giants of legend that I suspect were all characters in his made-up tall tales. Sometimes, I wouldn’t listen. Most nights, I pressed my cheek against his chest and let his smooth tone resonate, let the vibration of his voice rock me into sleep.
I haven’t had a picnic since I was eleven. Obligations came with junior high. There was track and Jiu-Jitsu, slumber parties and guitar lessons. But I still remember the twilight. I remember the sweet timbre of my father’s voice and the stars winking down on us.
After thirteen hours sequestered in the library basement, I need the cool air of our campus’ courtyard, the clear, dark skies above and the stillness that comes as the late hours scatter students to their dorms. And a pastry. A fattening, carb-filled, warm, buttery pastry from the coffee shop.
Tonight is beautiful. A chill whispers on the skirts of the breeze and the skies are unblemished and bright. The chill will turn quickly. October is only weeks away and with it comes frigid temps and a need for scarves and thicker jackets. I don’t mind. I love the crisp wind and the turning of the leaves, the smell of fires lit in the night and, of course, rugby. Lots and lots of rugby matches come with fall. My girls and I have seats reserved for tomorrow’s opening match. Just thinking of it have my steps a bit lighter, like a kid hearing the ice cream truck the next street over. I hope between the loud, riotous game day noises I can mention my wager with Tucker without receiving too much bodily injury. But for tonight, there is peace and me walking toward the courtyard, breathing in the hint of autumn in the air.
Cavanaugh is a magical place in the fall. The university bustles with energy; partly because the end of humidity is on the horizon, partly because the entire town is obsessed with rugby and the matches turn our little settlement into a frenzied, decadent party. Most small towns in the country have a football obsession. In Cavanagh, football is the American version of rugby with thirty pounds of padding. We scoff at football.
Thoughts of rugby matches remind me that tomorrow I’ll see Declan play for the first time. I hate to admit that I am curious, hate more that I was wasting a perfectly gorgeous evening thinking about Declan. I bustle in and out of the coffee shop, eager to demolish the scone I’ve been thinking about all week and walk toward the lake, ready to settle on a bench. I should be enjoyi
ng the cooling temperatures, the warm latte in my hand, instead of thinking about Declan’s kisses or his firm body pressed against mine. Wait. No. I was thinking about Declan playing rugby.
The bench is cool against my back, but the sky above glistens small sparkles of light beneath heavy blue-black clouds. There are clusters of bright stars that blink, patterns that shine and weave like diamonds and swirls of dark clouds obscuring each glowing dot. It reminds me of a Van Gogh painting and I smile at the thought. The warm scent of cinnamon, chocolate and baked goods from the coffee shop and the faint scent of leaves burning in the distance intensify my relaxation, hums into my chest so that I lower my guard and become oblivious to the activity around me. The scone melts on my tongue and I close my eyes, enjoying the taste and don’t move when a heavy weight flops next to me. It’s probably just some random student enjoying the quiet of the courtyard as much as I do.
“Give us a bite?”
The bench shakes when I jerk up to gawk at Declan as he reaches toward me. On instinct I cover my mouth and his eyes flick to my hand at the movement. “What are you doing here?”
Declan stretches his arm behind me and his irritating grin nudges at his lips. “I was talking about the pastry, love, but I wouldn’t mind biting something else.”
“Will you get out of here? I’m enjoying the quiet.”
Declan’s frown is tight and exaggerates thin lines around his eyes. “I’m not a bother, am I?”
“You’re a bother to my peace and serenity.”
He sighs, pulls his arm away from me. “Peace and serenity I had a hand in, mind, a few hours ago.”
Disturbed by his presence and unreasonably worried that he can read my thoughts—and know exactly where my mind was just moments ago—I scoot away from him. “Don’t you have anything better to do? I’m sure there are girls all over campus who’d love to hang out with you. Or your friends, the other players.”
“Not really interested in girls, love. It’s women I want. Specifically,” he slides in closer, “clever, curvy, gingers with a face covered in freckles.”
My eyes blink in rapid succession as I try to push down the laughter that threatens to inch out of my mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Declan, get out of here and stop trying to seduce me.”
“Seduce you?” He laughs. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Flirting. Whatever. Just go. You have a match in the morning, right? Go get some rest.”
“Yes, Mum, but first, will you give me a bite?” He wets his mouth and his eyes instantly center on my lips. When he edges forward, I shove my half eaten, still warm scone into his mouth.
The noises he makes as he nibbles on my pastry are disregarded, pushed away in my mind so that I don’t focus on them. His tongue slips out to catch the crumbling remnants of crust and my stomach clenches at the sight. Declan’s eyes slip open and he glances at me, making my cheeks flush.
“Want a nibble, love?”
“No, I—” I clear my throat. “I’m good, thanks.” He isn’t buying it. He pinches off a piece of the scone and offers it to me, waving it in front of my mouth so that I cannot grab it before he slips it past my lips. I try not to think about the feel of his fingers against my teeth or how he isn’t smiling, doesn’t seem remotely amused anymore.
Declan tries feeding me another bite, but I watch the stars, wishing my chest didn’t feel so tight, wishing I could recapture the calm I felt before he intruded.
“You don’t like these?”
I close my eyes. “I love them. But I really shouldn’t eat them. I’m supposed to be training.”
“Ah yes. I caught bits of your little row with Nancy Boy.” Declan crumples the pastry wrapping and the bench shakes when he dusts crumbs from his lap. “It’s why I came to find you.”
I roll my head to him at his confession. “Why?”
“That was going to be my question.” I don’t move away from him when his arm returns behind me on the bench. “Why do you want me back as wing?”
“I’m sorry. This is going to sound God-awful, but I was motivated by selfishness.”
“How do you mean?”
I sit up and rub my hands over my arms. My cardigan is thin and I hadn’t expected the night to grow so cool. Declan inches closer to me and I don’t know why I’m not pushing him away, putting space between us. I like the way I fit under his arms, the warmth from his chest and the easy comfort I feel with him next to me.
“Tucker hates you, clearly. You hate Tucker. I’m not overly fond of him either. I really meant to annoy him as much as possible and aside from me sleeping with the entire squad, I couldn’t think of a wager that would irk him enough.” Declan’s features are relaxed and he blinks in understanding. “When I saw the daggers he was shooting you I decided that you would be the perfect way to piss him off.” My eyes meet Declan’s for a second but he doesn’t seem bothered by my confession.
One dark eyebrow cocks upward. “So, you’re using me?”
“Not…exactly,” I say.
Declan’s mouth pinches tight and a long breath releases through his nostrils. “Hmm,” he says.
I’m not eager to inflate his ego but am concerned, for some ungodly reason, that I may have offended him. “Look, Mullens wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t good.” I pick up his hand and examine all those well-worn scars on his knuckles. “You’re good, I can tell. If you weren’t, Tucker would have never tried sabotaging you. And trust me, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Tucker is amazing on the pitch, I’ll give the devil his due, but he has this thing about being the best.” Declan’s hand falls to his lap. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have convinced Mullens to shift your position. You intimidate him. That’s why he tried ‘giving you some pointers.’” I say the last with air quotes. “It’s what he does. He’s trying to screw with your head.”
Declan thinks for a moment, silent, before he pulls his arms away from me to cross them over his thick chest. We both stare out at the lake, watch the fish jump in and out of the water to fetch an errant bug. “So, me getting my spot back will annoy him the most?”
“Absolutely.”
Declan jerks his chin once and his cheeks curve up. “I missed his part. What did he wager?” I’m not sure I can place the expression on his face. Concern? No, that couldn’t be it. “He wants you, that much I can tell. Is his game to have you back?”
“No. He’s far more calculating than that. If we lose, then the girls and I have to volunteer for this disgusting auction.” My shoulders lower at Declan’s little scowl but I stretch up to rest my elbows on my knees. Explaining the auction is humiliating. It embarrasses me as do the idiots who willingly participate in it and my heart clenches as I try and fail to look at Declan. “Every year the boosters sponsor this foul auction. Girls sign up, wear skimpy little outfits and auction off dates to the highest bidder. It’s not anything illegal or really scandalous, but it can get quite vulgar.” My back connects with the bench as I mimic Declan by crossing my arms. “There are quite a few insipid little tarts on this campus, most of whom want nothing more than to be the center of attention. Or to land a husband. The auction gives them the opportunity to parade around in front of a bunch of horny, old men.” By his small frown, I know Declan sees my disgust. “They’re looking for sugar daddies.”
“And Tucker wants you to volunteer for this?”
“Yep. If we lose.”
The tension in my shoulders lessens with Declan’s small scowl and the lines that worry his features. “Well, then we can’t let that happen, can we?”
“What?”
“I’m a fit lad, McShane and I’ve trained with some pretty good coaches since I was a kid. Let me help you out, will ya? You and your girlies. We’ll train, get you all up to snuff and you’ll demolish that wanker.”
He must be insane. Either that or he’s itching for a showdown with Tucker. “Declan, you can’t. You’re on the squad. The bet is for teams. You guys against me and my friends.”
/> The harsh lines of his face relax at my explanation. “And?”
“If Tucker finds out…”
“I don’t care if Morrison finds out.” He runs his long fingers over his face, across his forehead, as though he’s trying hard not to lose his temper. “He isn’t my coach. I help you lot win and I get my spot back. I can’t see the bad in any of that.” There is always a small voice whispering in my mind, telling me to stay on guard, especially around men. Declan’s nice, he’s a smartass, but he’s nice. Still, I don’t trust him, am not certain that his motives aren’t ulterior. He must pick up on my hesitance, either that or my features are advertising my concern because Declan stretches across the bench again and lets his hand cup around my shoulder, a comforting, relaxed gesture. “You reckon I’m having you on? You know I can’t stand our captain and from the complaints I’ve heard on the pitch neither can most of the squad.” When my face remains expressionless, Declan lets his shoulders fall and his lips quirk in that same smug smirk. “Besides, I’d love nothing more than to see you in that black little bra you were wearing the night I mauled you.”
“I thought you were drunk.”
“I was, but I wasn’t blind, love.” His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, erasing my shock, my exasperation, and the air around us heats. My heartbeat is erratic, sputtering as Declan glances over my features. When he speaks, his voice is low and his breath fans across my skin. “Is it a deal then? Are we co-conspirators in the fall of the mighty Morrison?”
My throat closes up at the heavy weight of his eyes on me, at the thick collection of energy I feel every time his fingers stroke against my face. A shake of my head clears away thoughts that have become torrid and, shoulders straight, I offer my hand to him, ready to seal our arrangement. But Declan’s eyes drift to my left, focus as though something of supreme interest divides his attention. I turn my head, move this way and that, but I don’t see anything, have no clue what distracted him. The yelp of surprise that lifts from my throat surprises me when I turn my face and his mouth covers mine. It’s just a peck, brief but firm on my lips.