by Sara Ney
Tony Keats gives a jerky nod toward the foyer. “Porch. The guys stalled her outside in case she wasn’t allowed back in tonight—no one knew what you’d want us to do.” His hands jam inside his pockets. “Her friends are flirting with Brinkman.”
“Brinkman?”
Brinkman is a sophomore and a total douchebag who loves attention from girls, guys, and anyone with a pulse. I hate that he made the team and that our coach signed him, but we’re stuck with him, girls love him, and he’s a fucking fantastic outfielder.
Kid might have a thirty-eight-inch vertical, but the tidy package includes a few STDs.
“Brinkman, huh? I thought the blonde one had a boner for Derek.”
“They’re both blonde,” Keats points out. “But ya know chicks love Brinkman, and he’s probably their best chance at getting laid tonight. No one wants to hit it with Cock Blocker’s friends after last weekend.”
Heat spreads through my chest as I scratch behind my ear, taking a swig from my beer bottle as Tony runs his loose mouth beside me.
“Girls are like stray cats man—you let one in, give them some milk, and they keep coming back. We’re the milk, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured it out.”
“I get the analogy, Tone. Thanks.”
I clap him on the back, chug the remainder of my beer, and set it on the closest surface. Wipe the condensation from the bottle on the leg of my pants.
“All right, give me a few—I’m going outside to figure this shit out.” We bump knuckles. “Run upstairs, would you? And bring my damn jacket from Amado’s room.”
I won’t lie, my heart rate quickens when I push through the front door of the baseball house. The girl is indeed on the porch, back against a support beam, hanging back as her friends cluster around Jonathan Brinkman.
She’s barely recognizable.
It’s cold tonight, and she’s dressed for the occasion in jeans, a jacket, and dark gray knit cap pulled down over her long dark hair. It’s the kind of knit hat you’d wear skiing or sledding.
Or on a trip to the frozen fucking tundra.
Or when you think you might be spending an entire night on a cold porch.
She’s causal, leaning on the railing, not one bit of surprise marring her expression when I push through the screen door, stepping down onto the floorboards of the porch.
My mouth, goddamn it, stretches into a toothy grin when we lock eyes, her brows rising beneath her warm hat. They wiggle in my direction as she raises two hands, covered in mittens, sending me a small, hopeful, wave.
She’s cheeky, this one.
I acknowledge Brinkman with a fist bump, and Cock Blocker’s friends light up when they see me, two pair of eyes alive with interest and overenthusiasm. Possibly because I’m fresh meat to sink their cleat-chasing claws into.
I shrug it off; I’m not out here for them.
I tip my chin up at the girl. “Nice coat. Looks nice and insulated. Warmer than last weekend’s attire.”
“Indeed it is. I dug deep into my closet for this one—you know, just in case.”
The trio on the porch with us choose that moment to make their escape. Brinkman and the two blondes push through the screen door to the house without stopping, without looking back—without checking to see if their friend is following behind them.
“I see you didn’t take my advice.” She flickers her gaze over my chest, brows raised. “Where is your jacket?”
“It’s coming.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I had it ordered up when they came and told me you were here.”
“Ordered up? What does that mean?”
I smirk arrogantly. “I’m having someone fetch it.”
“You are not.” She’s about to smirk, too, but the grin is wiped off her face when—as if on cue—Tony Keats abruptly bangs through the door, thrusting my jacket into my outstretched hand.
My fingers close around it.
My arms shrug into it.
Thumbs hook into the pockets, and I jut my hip out, posing. Cocky.
“Boom! Jacket.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “Wow. That was…”
“Awesome? Amazing?” I spin on my heels in a full circle for emphasis—as if she needs more evidence that I’m a badass.
“Yes.” She’s laughing now, tugging at her hat, pulling it down over her ears. “Sure, that’s one way of putting it.”
She takes a few hesitant steps forward, destination: the door behind me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so hasty.” I tsk, raising my arm, preventing her from moving toward the door, almost clotheslining her in the process. Arm grazing against the scratchy fabric of her coat. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She drags her eyes up and down my body before casting a guilty glance down into the dark yard. Gulps.
“That’s right, take a good look at where you’re spending another night.” My hands go wide, panning around the porch. “Because we’re going to spend another night outside.”
What the hell is wrong with me? Let her in for fuck’s sake.
“We are?”
“Yeah, all signs point to: you can’t go back inside.”
Liar.
“They’re really not going to let me in?”
Yeah, they would, but you don’t need to know that.
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I was kind of hoping…”
“Tonight’s not your night, babe—too many people inside.”
Shut the fuck up, Rowdy. Why are you doing this? Just let her inside so you don’t have to stand out here with her—give her what she wants.
She came to party.
She didn’t come to stand on the fucking porch with you.
But what if she did? She didn’t—she hasn’t hit on you once. Shut the fuck up, idiot.
Jesus Christ, now I’m arguing with myself.
“I’m really sorry Cock Blocker, it’s been decided.”
By me. Because I’m a selfish asshole.
Her arms brush my chest when she crosses them. She’s standing closer, her chin raised rather indignantly. “If we’re going to stand out here, could you not call me Cock Blocker? You and I both know it’s degrading.”
She’s right; calling her Cock Blocker is demeaning, but suddenly I’m an eight-year-old boy on the playground who doesn’t know how to conduct himself in front of a cute girl. I’m four seconds from pulling at her hair.
Not to mention, if my mother heard me calling her Cock Blocker, she’d metaphorically kick my ass straight into next week.
“Sorry.” I swallow. “There are rules you have to follow if you’re going to stand on this porch with me, and not being a sass is one of them.”
“Then it’s going to be a really long night for both of us.” Her mouth puckers.
“You know how athletes love their rules and playbooks.”
She crosses her arms, setting her bag on the floor. “Actually, I don’t.”
My arm extends, resting on the doorjamb and creating a barricade. “We create rules as we go, and the porch-dwelling addendum is new, created special just for you.”
I sound so fucking stupid.
Her eyes are brighter tonight, a black coat of mascara on her top lashes. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Her voice is almost a whisper, and for a brief second, I feel like a real fucking prick.
But that fucking dimple makes an appearance, and all my best intentions to behave fly out the window. Shit, who am I trying to kid? I have no best intentions.
“Why are you doing this? You had to have known you weren’t coming inside—you wore a hat with your coat tonight. You literally look like you’re going skiing.”
Her arms raise, finger pointing into the living room her friends just disappeared into, exasperated. “But you let my friends inside!”
“It’s been decided by the council. You cannot come back inside.”
“Who’s the council?”
Me.
“That’s
a well-guarded secret.”
“God, you are so exasperating.”
Ooh, exasperating—good word. “Thank you.”
“I can’t go back…ever?” Her eyes get wide.
A terse jerk of my head. “We’ll see.”
“You’re going to make me stand on the porch tonight while my friends stay inside?”
I cross my arms. “I can’t make you do anything, can I?”
Her lips blow out a frustrated puff of air, sending a few loose strands wisping around her face. “Be honest: don’t you think this is kind of ridiculous?”
Yeah—but I keep that shit to myself, because tonight, when I saw her, I decided to be selfish with her time, to stand out here and try to make her laugh just so I can make that dimple appear in her cheek.
Not that my friends would have been ecstatic to see her; she would have a shit time inside since Wilson and Fitzgerald are still ten shades of pissed, the fucking tit babies.
Bros before hos and all that sexist bullshit.
At least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself later when I’m staring up at the ceiling above my bed, thinking about that little dent in her cheek same as I’ve done every damn night this past week.
“Honestly, we here at the baseball house do our best to be as difficult as possible.”
“Haven’t I been punished enough?”
“Don’t consider it a punishment—consider it banishment on a case by case basis.” I snap my fingers. “Oh! Like you’ve been voted off the Island of Hornball Dudes Who Want to Get Laid.”
“Really?” She rolls her eyes, backing away a few steps. “That’s what you’d name your island?”
I laugh. “If it were my island, it would something way cooler, like Rowdy’s Tropical Hideaway.”
“So that really is your name?”
“Yes, that really is my name.”
“Your name is Rowdy?” She repeats it, and I can’t help but be slightly insulted by her tone.
I spread my arms wide. “In the flesh.”
“Huh. Interesting.” Her hands go to the hat pulled down over her forehead, giving it a little tug upward to afford herself a better view of me.
I return the favor, giving my greedy eyes permission to wander the length of the hair peeking out from beneath her knit winter beanie; it’s long—longer than it looked pulled into a ponytail last weekend, and a dark shade of chocolate brown.
When she tilts her head, catches me staring, I refocus my attention to the yard, feigning interest in the cars parked at the curb.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Is she being coy on purpose? “Do you have a name?”
“Of course I have a name.”
“So it’s going to be like that, huh?”
Her pretty pink lips smirk. “Yeah, it’s like that.”
“Mind if I take a guess?”
Shrug. “Be my guest.”
“Helga.”
Her brows shoot up. “That’s your guess?”
“Rudy.”
“Seriously, you’re such an asshole.” She laughs, eyes doing a sparkly little dance as she watches me. “Do I look like my name is Rudy? Rudy, jeez.”
I shrug. “Prudence?”
“I hate you so hard right now.” She laughs again. “My name is Scarlett.”
Scarlett.
Scarlett red. Scarlett fever.
“Huh. Never would have guessed.”
An ironic expression is pasted on her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Scarlett.
I slide the zipper of my jacket up and down to give my hands a chore, glancing at her on the sly.
“Why do you suppose, Scarlett,” I ask slowly, testing out her name, hands burrowing in my pockets, “that your friends keep abandoning you for dick?”
Her mouth twists into a bemused smile. “I don’t know, Rowdy—why do you think all women want from you and your friends is dick?”
Holy shit, this girl and her mouth.
“If you’re referring to our lack of personalities, I take offense.”
Scarlett sighs. “I can’t even be mad at you right now.”
“I don’t want you to be mad, I’m just making conversation.”
I shrug. “It’s your friends who are groupies, not you.”
“My friends aren’t groupies.” Her brows go up. “But it sounds like it’s bothering you way more than it’s bothering me.”
I do not understand girls.
I prod her. “Admit that’s what they are. Tell Uncle Rowdy your friends are gold diggers and we’ll get along just fine.”
The little burst of laughter is airy, kind of sweet, and has me puffing out my chest. I did that—she thinks I’m funny.
Most girls just see my face. The body. The uniform.
“Are you always this tenacious? You will not quit, will you?”
“Being a gold digger isn’t always a bad thing, Scarlett.”
“I know that, Rowdy.” She all but rolls her eyes toward the dark sky above. “But trust me, sometimes it has nothing to do with the fact that they play sports. Have you seen your friends? I mean, they’re good-looking. Some of them are so fracking hot.”
I stomp down a flare-up of jealousy.
“So so so good-looking.” She goes on, simply cannot stress enough how damn good-looking my friends are, and now my ass cheeks are puckering. “A girl would have to be blind not to notice.”
“And I’m not?” I swear to fucking god, my nostrils flare.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Whatever reply she has on the tip of her tongue is fleeting, gone within a heartbeat, and replaced with a simple, “You know you are.”
My chest inflates inside my jacket.
“Besides,” she goes on, “it’s not a crime to have a type—that doesn’t make them groupies, right? Or gold diggers? They just gravitate toward buff, amazingly hot guys.”
“No, it’s not a crime to have a type.” I can’t believe I’m arguing about this stupid shit with her. “But the fact that they’re hanging out here, at this house specifically, when there are plenty of other house parties on campus makes them cleat chasers, hot dudes or not.”
I damn near choke on those last words.
Scarlett tilts her head at me, knit cap concealing the brows I know are being raised in my direction. I want to whip that hat off and see what’s underneath, what the exact shade of her hair is.
“Are you always this sure of yourself?”
I jerk out a decisive nod. “I’ve been playing at this for three years. I know the drill.”
Her next question surprises the shit out of me, like a casual bomb dropped in my lap. “What about you—how many cleat chasers have you let past third base?”
It detonates, as it was intended to.
“Ouch.” I grab my upper bicep. “Scarlett, that dig hurt me a little.”
She smirks, chuckling to herself, feeling sassy. “Ha, that’s what I thought. So judgmental yet so hypocritical.”
“Which guys are they panting over tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Her shoulders slump. “That same asshole Derek, and somebody Tessa found on IG—oh, and one of the outfielders we met on the porch. Bingman?”
Brinkman and Wilson? Man, her friends have shittastic taste in men if they’re chasing those twats around. Brinkman has no standards; his favorite conquests are desperate band geeks, sorority girls with dark hair, and teacher’s aids—which is way too fucking specific if you ask me.
“I know on our walk over last Friday, Cameron threw your name around quite a bit. I think she’s…” Scarlett chooses her next words carefully. “Kind of envious that I’m out here with you.”
I all but snort. “I’m not dumb enough to date girls like that.”
“When we left,” she goes on, “they were talking so much shit about what an asshole you are.”
“Stop.” I wave a hand at her, demurring. “Now you’re making me blush.”
Her laughter keeps coming easy tonight—and louder—steam rising from her lips with every giggle.
Fucking delightful is what it is.
“You’re definitely too—”
“Hot?” I interrupt, battering her with adjectives. “Magnificent? Insanely talented?”
“Not humble, that’s for sure.” If she rolls her eyes any farther into her head, they’ll get stuck in her skull. “Unattainable? They think they’ll have better luck with someone less…” She waves a hand in the air, searching for the adjectives.
“Sexy? Talented? Mind-blowing?”
“Would you please stop interrupting? You really are the worst.”
“I’m right though, aren’t I? They’re after smaller fish, knowing they’ll have a better chance at snagging one.”
“Maybe.”
“Well they’re right.” Those girls have zero chance with me and every chance with someone else. “You can tell them not to bother next time my name comes up.”
She buries her hands in the pockets of her warm jacket, tugging at her mittens. “Trust me, they are not here for you.”
I make a humming sound, unconvinced. Girls like the ones she came here with? They don’t give up easy, and they don’t play fair. Prime example: Scarlett being marooned on the porch, alone, despite the fact that it was by design.
“You want something to drink?” I walk the few feet to the cooler I had Keats place by the door so we’d have refreshments on the off chance she came back. Unhook the latch with my foot like a Neanderthal. Reach down and produce a bottle. “Beer? Water?”
“You brought me water?”
“Well, I didn’t want us—you—to die from thirst. Not on my watch.”
“That was really—”
I point a finger at her. “Don’t you fucking dare say nice, and don’t get used to it. I’m not running a home for stray cats here.”
Her eyes widen. “Stray cats?”
Shit. Damn Keats and his crap analogies. “Uh…never mind.”
I grab a water for myself, twisting the tops off two bottles and handing one to Scarlett. She swipes it in her mitten-clad paw, sucking the first drops eagerly.
“Ugh, it tastes so good.” Beneath the dim light of the porch, she offers me a smile, biting down on her lower lip. “I didn’t know I needed this.”