I don't comprehend a single thing for the next five minutes while I play what just happened over and over and over again in my head.
I know Greyson kissed me. I know that the logical conclusion is that he must like me. But I also feel like it's definitely possible that I'm dreaming or have progressed into full on hallucinations and there's no hope for my sanity.
Sam saw it though. I know she did because all she's done since it happened is smile like a creep and figure out who owes who money.
Apparently Sam won $50 because she bet Greyson would kiss me tonight but Sanders won back $20 because he bet that he'd make a big scene out of it.
They had bets going with Cam, Beck, and Sarah too.
I feel victimized.
I don't really understand how Greyson could like me. He could have literally anyone, like I'm convinced he could walk up to a Victoria Secret model and she would be the one fangirling over him. He is quite literally the hottest man I've ever laid eyes on plus he's actually really sweet and even a little funny when he wants to be. It just doesn't make sense.
Is it possible I manifested it? I mean I have been obsessed with him for like... well... maybe since I've met him... but only a little for the first few weeks. And then a lot for the rest of it. But how could I not be? There are like 500 girls packed into this room and I know none of them are here because they're a fan of the sport. They're a fan of him.
He's got thousands of followers on Instagram and I bet if I checked 95% of them are probably girls. He could have any of them.
A body bumping into mine draws me out of my thoughts and I refocus on the fight as Greyson and the other guy shake hands. Sanders, who was busy announcing and talking to the crowd or something, hops through the ropes and ruffles my hair as he comes to a halt between Sam and I.
"You look like you just found out you have 5 days left to live." He pulls my hair to get my attention, but I'm too busy staring at Greyson's opponent.
He's... massive. He actually manages to make Greyson look small.
He's maybe an inche or two shorter than him, but he makes up for it in sheer size. He's got to have like 100 pounds on Greyson. Where Greyson's defined and lean, Krostov's thick and bulky.
I turn to Sanders as they start circling eachother, ignoring his previous comment, and ask, "Is this guy a good fighter?"
"Krostov? Yeah. He's from Miami but was raised in Russia. Apparently he's been fighting since he was like 5, but it's probably bullshit."
My stomach twists and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. Greyson has to fight some Russian guy who's been fighting since he was 5?
"That sounds bad."
"Awe, is someone worried about her boyfriend?" He wiggles his fingers in my face and I whip my head to the side to stare at him.
"Were not—that's—he's not my boyfriend!" I sputter sounding like a complete idiot.
"Sure." I barely hear Sam say over the noise of the crowd.
"He'll be fine, Kenny, I swear." Sanders gives me a reassuring smile but it does nothing to quell the unease swirling in my stomach.
I look back to the ring just in time to see Krostov make the first move and Greyson deflect the punch. I can see their lips moving and I know they're probably egging eachother on because Greyson told me that happens a lot, but I really wish I could hear what they're saying.
YOU ARE READING
Kennedy is a junior at University of Washington-Seattle campus, and is ready to move on with her life. But with no desire to go into finance and a dream to start writing books, she doesn't know what her future will hold. Or who. Greyson Kingsley, a...