Straight To You

eight

"Really, Scott?" Jack asks after I shove him, grinning from ear to ear like this interaction is so funny. "Is that all you've got?"

"You want me to hurt you?" I remark, shooting him a you must be crazy glance.

"I don't think you could, Scott." Jack says the words like a dare, just asking to get slapped in the face. Unlike what Jack here thinks, I totally will do it. I'm not past slapping people in the face, especially when it comes to Jack Crawford.

"Oh," I murmur, looking up at Jack smugly. "I'm pretty sure I could."

"Go ahead," Jack edges. The smirk on his face only adds to my annoyance, and his attractiveness. I curse myself for thinking that, though I can't deny the undeniable. "Look, I'll even stand still. Make it easier for you."

"Would you cut it out, Crawford?" I snap, glaring at him as my annoyance rises to an all time high. "Or else I really will slap you."

Jack merely laughs at my threat to the point where he's doubled over. I seriously don't think it's that funny, but Jack Crawford seems to have added bothering me to his list of life goals. I stand in front of Jack, watching him with my arms crossed, waiting for him to stop laughing like he's been given nitrous oxide and is now unbearably loopy. When he doesn't stop after a minute has passed, I find that I really do want to slap him.

So I do.

I raise my hand from my side and send it flying toward his face. I don't know what I'm expecting, since Jack isn't even facing me. Just as my hand is about to make contact with his cheek, Jack grabs my wrist, holding it away from his face yet within his grasp. I can't help but stare, wide-eyed, as Jack stands up straight, suddenly not laughing anymore.

"I knew you couldn't," is all Jack says. His smirk is so wide, I itch to slap it off of him, but he's still got my wrist captured in his grip. I don't know my skin within his touch is burning, or why I don't jerk away from his hold right about now. I could, if I wasn't so lost in his beautiful green eyes, that is.

Did I seriously just think that? Snap. Out. Of. It!

I honestly have no clue what's gotten into me.

"My dad is the coach," I blurt, wanting this to be over. I don't want to be anywhere near Jack Crawford. I want to get away from him as quickly as possible so I can get myself together and figure out why my skin sparks with electricity at his touch and why I can't stop thinking about his goddamn green eyes.  "If you don't let go of me, I'll scream for him at the top of my lungs."

Jack laughs at my words, though he does release my wrist. And even though I'm now free to run off as I please, I find that my feet remain firmly planted where I am, as if they have a mind of their own. My mind tells me to get away from Jack right now, because it's not like I'm enjoying his company. But my body must like something about the way it felt to have him touch me, or how his laugh makes my heart race, because I don't think I could move right now if I tried.

"Why do I doubt that you would actually do that?" Jack teases, testing me. Once again, he's smirking at me as if he's all that, a look that suits him yet infuriates me all at the same time. I want to wipe that smug look off of his face, to prove to him that I'm a force to be reckoned with from time to time.

So I do.

"DAD!" I yell at the top of my lungs, watching as Jack's features morph from a smug little smile to an expression of pure terror.

"Okay, okay," Jack murmurs, his gaze shifting to the football field as if he's looking to see if my dad heard my cry. "I get it."

I smile sweetly at him, batting my eyelashes. "You should always take me seriously, Jack," I retort, my smile widening. "Or next time my dad will hear me."