♥ ♥ ♥
"DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO REEVES?" Raf asks over my shoulder just as I'm glancing down at the jersey in my hands.
White and yellow lettering stands out against UCLA's bright blue, brandishing a number and my name. The jersey had been a startling sight from Reeves, who'd unceremoniously tossed them at Raf and I as soon as we'd appeared on his field. I'd had half the mind to dryly ask if he'd had them made and stored months in advance. Knowing Reeves' renewed vigour for football, it's entirely possible.
Raf wasted no time, stripping himself of the vest he'd been wearing then and there, falling into the blue like nothing.
I turn to him now on the field, the black of his tattoos peeking out from behind the blue that he wears just as easily as his ink, like a second skin. Carefully inked branches along his collarbone, curling like kindling in a fireplace right down the canvas of his arms, stand stark against the blue of the shirt and the brown of his skin. In the years I've known him, he's gone under the needle more than a dozen times and I'm near certain he's working towards a full sleeve. Plus, a few of them were dares. If I dared him to tattoo Lightning McQueen on his left ass cheek right this moment, the fucker is stupid enough to do it.
"He hasn't put down the whistle yet?" I guess, head turning to the sound. Raf fits me with a suspicious look as I do, like I'm singlehandedly to blame for Coach's newfound love for his whistle and overall attitude on the field.
I don't deserve all the blame.
Maybe some of it.
The man made me commit to twenty solo laps after the first practice just so I'd stop calling him Hank in front of his team. By the time I was done, the locker room was empty aside from waiting Raf who happily informed me that Reeves spent the entire duration of my run shit-talking me with him. Winded beyond breath, cheeks flushed and sweat clinging to my skin, I'd grinned.
He definitely likes me.
My gaze zeroes on Coach where he stands, bellowing across the field, hands on his hips, face contorted hotly. He reminds me of one of those cartoon characters two seconds before plumes of white steam starts pouring from their ears.
"Poor fucks better get moving before Coach blows a whole gasket," I muse cheerfully to Raf. "Who would've thought the man was a secret hard ass?"
His silver whistle sits between his lips and he's not the slightest bit hesitant to blow on it till he's red-cheeked, making all the men within his sphere of space flinch, all of them bleary-eyed and worn out from partying all weekend and today's Monday classes.
Reeves is having none of it.
He just keeps going at the whistle, the sound atrocious against my own ears even from our distance across the field.
I'm thoroughly impressed he hasn't passed out from lack of oxygen yet.
He only drops the whistle when he's satisfied that everyone has filed onto the field, the sunlight reflecting off the silver as it to the chest of his Coach's jersey.
Raf and I hold the middle of the pitch and there are passing thumps on the back as the team filters around us.
"Red, man." I accept a fist bump from Colin Green, who ironically gets called Red by the team because of his impossible-to-miss red hair.
"Five minutes ago, he threatened to drown Walsh in the Gatorade if he doesn't stop yawning," Raf supplies as Liam Walsh, the goalie, approaches. "Says it'll wake him up."
Apparently, those little manly fist bumps and hey bro's are wasting too much time in Reeves' head because he blows the whistle again and Walsh, who's knocking knuckles with Raf, blanches at the sound, apparently reliving trauma from just minutes ago, drops his hand and races away with impressive speed.
He shuffles his ass into the goal box and does not move an inch.
Raf blinks in wonder and I know, for all his suspicion regarding Reeves' shifted attitude, he's thoroughly enjoying himself.
Reeves, formerly the subdued, easy-going coach we'd known in passing, had transformed overnight into a force to be reckoned with and his poor team who he'd accused of dragging their feet in his office that day now had zero choice but to whip into shape. Lest they become like their former captain.
Once Walsh flees, I turn to Raf. "Well, he's got a point. A goalie who's half-asleep is no fucking use. After all, a wise man once said that a goalkeeper should be as observant and on his game as a woman stalking her man's following list on Instagram."
Raf scowls at me, but even his scowls of late have a lighter edge to them— less chainsaw, more cutlass, perhaps? "No one has fucking said that."
"I just did," I reply easily. "And I am a wise man."
"Okay, wise fuck," Raf shoots back. "What if I drown your ass in that bucket of Gatorade, what then?"
There's the sound of someone jogging behind me, followed by, "Nah, that's Lemon-Lime Gatorade. Shit might as well kill him."
Parker, now a cautionary tale to those on the team, displaying just how easily rank can be stripped, sounds friendly enough as he enters the conversation. Still, I don't turn to the rumble of his voice, even as Raf shoots him a distrustful look over my shoulder. I only take the opportunity to pull my shirt over my head, arms stretching high, finally tossing it at Raf's scowling face when I'm done. It's my way of saying play nice.
Telling Herrera to play nice is like suggesting a tiger adopt veganism. But, hey, if Zahed, bared teeth and all, could do it, maybe anyone can.
"Technically," I say, fixing an arrogant grin his way as I tug the blue on over my head, fisting the collar with one hand, "I'm your captain now, Herrera. Show me some fucking respect."
Raf pulls the discarded shirt off his face, eyes rolling, not taking me seriously in the slightest. "You want me to kiss your fucking shoe or something?"
"Well, I have two shoes."
I hear Parker chuckle over my shoulder but my attention catches on Raf, his head turning, eyes narrowing across the field to the lone boy emerging from the shadows of the locker room, entering practice late.
Shit.
I hold my breath, waiting for Coach to notice the pale-faced boy's tardy arrival and start yelling again.
It's late Monday afternoon and the sun is ablaze overhead. We haven't even started anything yet but a thin trickle of sweat sinks down my spine. It's only been three days since the Thursday in the Coach's office, three days of this, Reeves' whistle blowing in everyone's ears, the harsh L.A. sun and the grass whispering under my feet as I run around, and the sudden change in my schedule has me a little worn down.
I don't dare show it, of course. Not with Parker breathing down my neck. Besides, I'm good at adjusting to change. I'm good at solving problems, adapting and overcoming. I suppose Reeves was right about one thing in his sudden shifting of positions.
Three days and I suddenly feel like I'm doing the work for twenty-something no good college runts.
Admittedly, it helps that I know most of them already and they trust me enough to listen.
For example, I know Michael, the midfielder who you can usually find at frat parties ripping at a bong somewhere in a corner. He likes me 'cause I told him he carves better rings than Marley.
That was a lie but most frat brothers believe anything you tell them.
Given our little circle of trust, you'd think he'd listen to me when I tell him it's probably not a good idea to try out the moonshine he and his Alpha Chi Sigma brothers brewed in the frat's master bathtub the night before Monday morning practice. Surprise, he didn't listen.
After I'd seen his Insta stories last night, I'd sighed, rung up Zahed and told her that if my teammate dies of botulism, it's not my damn fault. She'd laughed down the line and started reading off all the symptoms of consuming questionably-made liquor to me. And, just like that, some of the weight eased off my shoulders. I may or may not have fallen asleep to her talking about uncontrollable vomiting.
The news of Raf and I joining the team flew by pretty easily. Zahed and I spent that Thursday afternoon on Dima's rug assembling a cabinet while Mira confined him to a chair in the corner and said he wasn't allowed to move until he wrote something. So, to the sound of Nazarenko's typing, she and I successfully teamed up and built a whole cabinet. By the time we were done, Kajal had returned home and, greeted by the scene in the apartment, only hid a smile then casually suggested we order takeout like the sight of Zahed and me on the rug, the French manual she'd dutifully translated sprawled between us and a Rainbow Dash Band-Aid staring up at me from the foot she had in my lap, was perfectly normal.
One delivery later and Kajal was perched on the armrest of Dima's chair as he typed, offering him dumplings from her chopsticks, and Zahed, on the rug beside me, was picking red peppers out of stir fry. Only when Nazarenko shut the laptop, finished with his writing, did anyone start breaking news and Mira beat me to it— informing them of Mission: Meet The Family, her term, not mine.
At that, Dima and Kajal shared a conspiratorial look, smirks and all. Kajal and I have never been the type of cousins who fought, but I'd debating chucking a dumpling at her then. But they'd agreed to it with Dima overall thankful for his best friend's intervention.
By contrast, my news flew by with a bit more theatrics. Mira told me I was embracing my dumb jock destiny and emphasised this by kicking me in the ribs with the very foot she'd rested comfortably on my lap. Of course, I'd grabbed that ankle and yanked, sending her skidding down the rug. Kajal didn't even get mad when all of Mira's left-behind peppers went flying onto the rug, too busy eyeing in amusement as Zahed wrenched herself off my lap only to get yanked back down because if she was going to play rough with this dumb jock, she should know he likes to win.
Now, three and a half practices later, I still feel the most like I'm winning when her hands are on me.
Or worse, when I wake up in the morning to realise the call is still running and we did that annoying high school thing of falling asleep and wasting twelve hours on FaceTime. Just embarrassing. Someone should take my phone. I'd quickly hung up, cutting off her sleepy breathing on the other end.
But I'd still typed a quick text.
You snore like a fucking pig.
She actually doesn't— but fucking with her first thing in the morning was an opportunity I simply couldn't turn down.
After that, the day flew by on campus and I spent the majority of it shoving mess hall coffee and bottled water into Michael's hands and leaving him with Raf while I professionally bullshit an excuse to Reeves as to why practice should be shifted to the afternoon instead.
And so far, Parker's been nothing short of amicable, maybe for the sake of the team, or maybe he's just a good guy. Doesn't mean I'll be letting my guard downs anytime soon. If he wants to be friendly, I can be friendly. And if he wants to bite for his title back, I can bite back harder.
Things have been going well, for the most part.
If only Michael would become invisible as he walks toward Reeves. I can already hear the whistle and take a step forward, intending to step in for the sake of the pale-faced frat boy like a good captain or whatever.
"Ah, shit," Raf cusses, tilting his head. "Michael's throwing up."
Reeves' whistles falls from his mouth as he turns on a slumped over Michael who is, in fact, puking all over the field. I wince. Shit doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. Clearly, Mira's sources were right about that.
I feel like pinching the bridge of my nose when Coach's attention traces from retching Michael to me, he wears a What the fuck expression.
"Taco Bell. Can't trust that shit," Raf says at my side.
"Stomach bug," Parker explains at the same time.
Fucking hell.
It's me Reeves has his eye expectantly on and I shake my head, knowing I definitely can't say that Sigma boys are brewing moonshine. I'm pretty sure that's illegal in the state of California.
"Taco Bell gave him a stomach bug," I say to Reeves. "Who knows what the hell they put in that Crunch Wrap Supreme, Coach?"
According to Mira's wild theories about the unethical meat industry, it's horse meat.
I keep that bit of information to myself though.
Reeves does not believe me one bit. But I think he knows better than to pry because he shakes his head once, brings his whistle to his lips and blows hard.
Poor Michael straightens like a whip, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a little green in the face.
Coach eyes him for a beat before shouting, "Alright, you pussies! I'll handle this but, in the meantime, go run around until I tell you to stop." He blows on the whistle again, cheeks red. "Just run around the puke. Pretend it isn't there."
There's a shuffling of unsure feet and I think it's my role as captain to interject, "But, Coach—,"
He cuts me off with a pointed finger, challenging, "Do you want to clean this shit up, Shankar?"
I lift my palms up in surrender. "Hard pass. Forget I said anything. I'm good."
"Exactly," Coach shoots at me. He jerks his head around the gathered boys. "What are you ladies waiting for? Your balls to drop?" He waves his arms about. "Run!"
When no one moves, he catches the whistle between his lips again and blows a screeching sound that makes even me flinch. He doesn't stop until a dozen or so feet are moving.
Raf casts me a thrilled look, clearly enjoying himself. If Reeves is a closeted sadist, Raf is a confirmed masochist because he's been living it up these past three practices.
When I'd caught him unconsciously grinning the other day, he'd quickly ironed it over into his signature scowl.
Herrera chucks my shorn shirt to the ground, making to take off after the boys. But then, he jumps, mouth falling closed, as Reeves shouts across the field, "Herrera! Pick that shit up before I make you eat it!"
I hide a smile as Raf actually bends down and picks it up. Reeves isn't done once it's in his hand though, yelling harder, "Now, stop making eyes and Shankar and run!"
Raf shakes his head once, then takes off without another word. But not before flinging my shirt back at me.
I catch it with a wry smile but he's already gone.
Parker still stands near me as Coach, satisfied that almost all of his team is running, walks off-field to find someone to clean the mess.
"After you—," he starts to say but I'm already tearing off towards Michael, his face as white as skimmed milk as he hovers where he stands.
"Come on, man," I say, looping an arm under his shoulders. I shoot a quick look at Raf as he jogs ahead of the lot and he nods back, understanding. "Let me take you to the fucking hospital before Reeves gets back and asks too many questions. Maybe it'll teach you to listen to me next time, yeah?"
"Yeah." Michael nods dully, head bowed, his blonde hair slick with sweat. "Thanks, man. You're pretty good at this Cap thing, you know?"
"Just don't puke on my shoes, bro," I tell him plainly.
♥ ♥ ♥
WHEN I PULL UP TO THE HOUSE, I PAUSE at Mira's Range Rover parked in the yard. It glints black against the slowly darkening evening sky that greets me over the house, the grey shade peering between the clouds uncanny, whispering of dusk, promising kisses in the soon-to-approach dark. However, as much as the sky glooming over her car reminds me of her, I know better than to assume she's here for me.
She and Kenna are apparently, to quote Kenna exactly, 4Lyfers. I have no idea what that means but Kenna called Raf, Charlie and I her BFFL's a few weeks ago so I'm going to assume it's the same concept.
Still, even if she's here for Kenna, to hang out and do some girly shit like plotting a man's murder, I find myself parking outside the open black gate, unbuckling my seatbelt in too fast motions and climbing out of the car, keys in hand.
The sound of the sea behind the house, the waves crashing against the sand just off the road and down the slippery stone steps, greets me instantly, mingling with the faint salt in the air.
I pause as I step through the gate though.
Raf and Charlie linger out in the yard, Herrera, still in his kit, with his arms crossed and Charlie placating, palms pressed together.
"What do you mean I can't go inside yet?" Raf shoots a flinty-eyed stare at the properly shut front door.
"I mean that they said they were having a girl talk and I respect women's privacy." Charlie crosses his arms and nods solemnly.
Raf groans. "Not this again. Fuck girl code."
He heads for the door but Charlie plasters a hand on his chest and shakes his head sternly, planting his Louis Vuitton loafers firmly on the floor. "You remember that time Kenna threatened to set your bed on fire?"
"Fondly," I hop into the conversation, swinging the keys around a finger.
Raf's jaw ticks at my entrance but he's still looking burningly at Charlie. A stare like that should set Charlie's very expensive-looking hoodie on fire but Charles Ross remains unswayed by Raf's ire.
Knowing him, it's less likely that he's sweaty and probably wants to shower off Reeves' one thousand and one laps and more so that he wants to barge inside and interrupt whatever the girls are up to like the fucking menace he is.
As for me, I would like a shower. I certainly didn't have a fun time at the hospital where Michael threw up some more and the poor nurse warned him against homemade frat house spirits, even go so far as to threaten possible blindness. I think that settled the matter.
"Well," Charlie states, "Kenna's in there and she's got Mira and Dija as backup. So, what do you think she'll do to your room then, huh?"
"Smart man, Charlie," I cheer on with a clap.
Charlie grins and Raf glowers.
"But I can't believe you let a bunch of girls kick you out of your own house, Ross," I muse. I wonder how much of Charlie's willingness to stay outside has to do with the sweet spot he's harbouring for Khadija.
"What are they even talking about?" Raf pushes after a curious minute.
"You're too nosy," I tell him flatly, swinging the keys his way.
"I hope Zahed is in there telling everyone you have a small dick," is his scathing reply, eyes narrowed upon the clinking keychain like he might just grab it and stab me with the house key.
I roll my eyes. "Are you projecting right now, Herrera?"
"Right," Charlie cuts in. "Before any of you whip it out for this pissing contest—," He gestures between our blue shirts. "How was soccer practice, kids?"
"Football," Raf and I correct in practised unison.
Charlie rolls his eyes and waves us off. "Answer my question, babies."
"Great, Mom," Raf answers, extra emphasis on the Mom but Charlie is unswayed, embracing his soccer mom alter ego, head swivelling my way patiently.
Out of all of them, Charlie might be the one who could read me like a book. After all, he's known me longest.
So, I keep my answer as smart as possible, stating matter-of-factly, "A frat boy nearly puked all over my shoes."
At that, Raf grins. I flip him off.
"Sounds foul," Charlie remarks. Then, he points a finger at me. "See what I did there?"
Raf groans, sounding pained enough that you could assume that Charlie just twisted a knife in his gut. "Please don't."
"Am I not allowed to make soccer puns, Rafael?"
He visibly flinches. "Yup. Fuck this. I'm going."
He breaks for the door before anyone can grab him and I'm reminded why he's such a terror on a field.
The fucker is fast.
He's got the door pulled open before Charlie and I even start after him. Raf barges in and Charlie and I exchange a look before deciding to intervene should Kenna actually set his bed on fire.
Between her and Zahed, I can't predict who would light the match.
"Hi, honey," Raf announces as he steps through the front door, tone drier than day-old slice bread. "I'm fucking home."
"Get out," I hear someone snap. Kenna.
"Fuck off," this one is Zahed, unmistakably venomous.
"Um," Dija splices in apologetically. "You can stay, if you like but we were kinda having an important conversatio—,"
"Don't be nice to him!" Kenna barrels and by the time Charlie and I are in the doorway, her green eyes catch ablaze and she's up on her feet behind the couch, swinging her arms at all of us like a monkey escaped from Sam Diego Zoo right to our living room. Dija nervously fiddles with her fingers as Kenna points a video game controller between the three of us. "Out. All of you. The trash takes itself out—,"
"You sound like Fucking Jessica right now, McKenna," I comment and she drops her arms to gawk at me.
"Take it back," this warning comes from Mira, her head turned toward me as she sits beside Dija, cross-legged on the couch. "Take it back or I'll have to help her hide your body."
She bears the matching controller to Kenna's and a single glance at the tv tells me they've paused one of Raf's video games, blood splatter gracing the screen. A single glance at the little glint in Mira's eye also tells me that she has zero qualms about hiding my body.
"Nope," I say and Kenna raises the controller like she wants to bash me upside the head for comparing her to her proclaimed arch-nemesis, former sorority sister, Jessica.
Raf saves me. Well, he saves his precious controller.
Grabbing it out of Kenna's grasp, he sneers at her, "Give me that. You're shit at this game."
He then unceremoniously plops between Mira and Dija, controller in hand.
Mira wrinkles her nose at him. "You stink."
He ignores her and unpauses the game.
"Best two out of three, Zahed. Let's go," he huffs like he's challenging her to a duel.
More blood splatters across the screen and gunfire roars to life. Kenna stands with her hands on her hips while Dija fumbles around with the third controller, trying to keep up with Raf.
Charlie drifts to the back of the couch to help her out. I resist the urge to shake my head as he leans over and very smoothly whispers guidance in her ear. He then reaches over the couch to helpfully press some of the keys of the console in her hands. Hell, Charlie's got game.
Mira, on the other hand, casts a dark sideways look at Raf, grits her teeth hard, eyes flying back to the screen, and starts clicking at her controller.
One thing about Mira Zahed, is that she doesn't need my help to kill a man.
I bite back a smile and slip towards the hall. I don't announce my leave, I just casually slink away, and I pretend I don't feel her eyes flickering on my back as I go.
When I twist on the water under the shower, I want to wash away all of today except for that brush of her gaze.
Raking a hand through my wet hair, steam gathers and I imagine her slipping through the misted glass, grey eyes the same blurry colours as the steam. Her hands would burn hot like the water against my skin, running down just like the droplets. My eyes snap open. A shake of head and I chase the thought entirely from my head, uncurling my hands flat against the tile. Tipping my chin back under the water, I dig my teeth into my lower lip and mentally swear at myself. She's not here for me so the least a man could do is shower with some dignity.
I'd told her we're not friends and I'd watched the question dance around her eyes afterwards, fully knowing I'd have no idea what to answer when she asks. Asshole move.
But friends don't drag their nails all the way down my skin like she's singlehandedly trying to claw her way to my heart. Friends don't kiss their friends the way we do, like we're equal parts trying to tear each other apart and piece it back together.
Shaking water from my hair, I'm wrapping a towel around my hips when I pause in the doorway of my bathroom, greeted by crossed arms over the bodice of a dress speckled with green-stemmed cherries, the glint of gold at her throat and grey.
I lift a brow.
Mira cocks a hip against the glass edge of my desk in the corner, dropping her arms to trace a finger down the lettering on the cover of a textbook, and I think about similarly tracing the unfamiliar letters framed gold on her necklace, as she clears her throat and explains, "Kenna thinks she's funny. She locked me in here."
A signature roll of her eyes follows and I'm smiling.
I pick up another towel and duck my head, dragging it through my hair. "Who won?"
Her eyes trace my every move from across the room.
"Hm?" I ask again, fighting a smirk, when she's too busy gazing.
"What?" Her eyes shoot up to mine. She doesn't blush but she knows she's caught. Instead, her expression blanks and I almost laugh at the world's worst poker face.
"Who won? You or Herrera?"
She crosses her arms again, straightening with a sour look.
"Raf, then?" I guess.
Her eyes cut to me sharply. "No. I kicked his ass."
"Sure," I tell her wounded ego, lowering the towel. "If it makes you feel any better, he's been in a long-term relationship with his Call of Duty girlfriend— since he was eleven, I believe."
"Actually, Khadija beat us both. Well, her and Charlie." Her brows wrinkle. "But back to what you just said— Dima had a Call of Duty girlfriend too. I honestly just assumed he made her up. Do all of you have those?"
"Can't speak for all men," I say, lifting my palms. "I had a Minecraft girlfriend though."
A little scoff. "Fucking nerd."
"It's okay. I know you're jealous of my Minecraft girlfriend, Zahed. Don't worry. We lost contact." I grin at her quick scowl. "Can't say the same for Raf though. Charlie and I have bets on the famed girl actually being a fifty-year-old beer belly from Kentucky."
She snorts. "Why Kentucky?"
"Overuses the word y'all," I inform her, turning to return the towel.
I catch Mira's nod, like that makes perfect sense. Then, to my turned back, she remarks, "It's been three days since you last kissed me."
The statement escapes her lips without a trace of hinting emotion. She says it like someone would recite the Periodic Table— and not the sing-along version from YouTube. Yet, the piece of information she hands over to me has my head spinning over a shoulder just to capture her gaze.
A thousand little things lurk behind that gaze. As good as I am with numbers, I can't even begin to count what lingers as it traces me. All I know is it feeds lightning right down my spine.
Mira tucks a strand of straightened hair behind her ear, her nails a new shade of flashing red. I follow the movement, eyes tipping right to the downwards curve of her pursed lips. Her mouth is a tinted shade of pale red, coated with a thin layer of shimmering gloss, that reminds me of freshly-washed cherries. Before I start to wonder whether catching her lower lip between my teeth would be just like biting into a cherry, I shake my head at her in muted amusement.
"You been keeping count, Zahed?" I ask, letting myself sound purely arrogant as I shift a step toward her.
Her eyes flash thunderstorm grey, a stark contrast to the burning orange sun setting over her shoulder at the large glass-walled window.
When her feet trace across the short distance separating us, I feel her body heat first. It hits in waves, like the tide beating against the shore right outside the window, or it might just be my imagination, head coiled tight around the fact that she wants me to kiss her.
"You're annoying," she remarks once she's properly infiltrated my space.
"That's not gonna get me to kiss you, you know?" I tilt my head at her meaningfully.
Her lashes feather down her cheeks when she glances up at me, eyes shadowed by those very lashes. "It's worked before. I honestly think you're enough of an egomaniac that the sound of anyone saying anything about you turns you on to the ma—,"
Her words are cut off by my arm whipping out to wrap around her hips. Cherry print rides up nicely as I tear her clean off her feet. Her legs struggle for purchase in the air, seeking to twine around me like the vice she is, but I'm quicker. Three steps, I turn and I drop her.
I let her fall with a vengeance. Mira lands on her back hard, hitting the mattress with a satisfying thud that echoes straight through my bones. That stare cuts and bleeds me dry as she shoots up to her elbows, fallen prettily across my bed but I already have her by the ankle, fingers skating along gold. I yank her back down.
Mira's glare blows wide when I vehemently drag her down the width of the mattress. Her hair skates across my sheets, neatly straightened up until now. Now, it flares around her head in a wild, splayed pattern just for me.
Unable to resist, my hand slips through her hair, my heart pounding in my ears, fingers tangling through the strands. I grab her by the back of her head and lean in, hovering over her, close but not close enough.
Her irritation at being thrown around dissipates, making way for the slow-burn desire turning her grey eyes dark like ash. Mira's eyes drop torturously to my lips.
My blood is electricity. A thunderclap in my ears, dauntingly loud enough that I almost give in.
My fingers tighten into a fist through her hair and I use it to steer her eyes up to mine.
Her breathing shortens. Her tongue darts out. Traces a quick line on her lower lip. I nearly pull her by her hair to me. Then, "Aryan—,"
"Oh, look," I cut her off, words a short tsk despite desire boiling through me. "You're in my bed, Zahed. Can't kiss you now, can I?"
And then, maybe it's the pure asshole in me, the one she has a particular talent for bringing out, or the fact that I haven't kissed her in three days, three days of Reeves yelling and Michael puking on the field and Parker breathing down my neck, three days and she's standing there pretty and I want to ruin her sweetly, but I loosen my hold on her head and lift away from her. We have rules. She's not mine to ruin.
And that's a shard of irritation between my ribs that mirrors the wickedly sharp glare that cuts across her face when I straighten and take a step back from the edge of my bed.
She shoots up to her elbows like a firecracker and this time, I don't drag her back down. Anger ignites behind her scowl, curled fists in my bedspread as she rises to her feet.
Chest to chest, Zahed tips her head back to meet my eye as she seethes, "What's the matter? You don't want to play by the rules anymore?"
Challenge rings between us, dripping like the sweetest poison from her lips, reminding me once again, that nothing with her is easy. It's almost like she's daring me. Do it. Fuck the rules.
I hold her stare for a slow moment.
Then, I cock my head at her. "If you wanted to escape that badly, Zahed, you could've tried a little harder." I watch her brows pinch together in confusion then I'm turning around, jerking a chin at the door as I walk away from her towards my dresser. I unwrap the towel at my hips, back to her unrepentant little gaze. "My door locks from the inside."
♥ ♥ ♥
"IT'S A STUPID RULE," Kenna not so discreetly whispers to me after I leave Aryan's room to let him change since he clearly wants to be a jackass.
Herrera's head whirls. "What rule?"
"Mind your own business," I scowl at him.
"Can I tell him?" Kenna nudges me.
"What?" I shoot an appalled look between her and Dija. "Why?"
My eyes dart down the hallway but he's still there. It's only been five minutes anyway. Kenna pouted when I reappeared less than fifteen minutes after she'd 'locked' me in there, claiming Aryan and I'd no bed rule, which I'm deeply starting to regret informing her and Dija about, is a stupid rule. Clearly, part of me must believe in her because I hadn't even bothered to try to open the door. And then he'd walked out of the shower, all wet and ripped, and, well, the rest is history.
Frankly embarrassing history that I didn't even get a kiss out of.
"Because," Kenna chirps brightly, "when you told us, you clearly wanted opinions and Rafael and Charles can give you those."
I scowl because she's right. I'd also told Dima for this exact reason. So far, Dima's opinion is that our little rule is funny, Kenna says it's stupid bullshit and Khadija has advised me to do whatever makes me happy. As of right now, I like Dija's opinion best.
Mostly because it's not actually an opinion and more her just being nice to me. Whatever makes me happy.
"Fine." I wave a hand at Kenna, faring a glance down the still empty corridor, no Shankar in sight. "Tell them."
Kenna claps her hands together, making Herrera and Charlie turn their attention to the three of us on the couch. I note Charlie's hand casually strewn over Dija's shoulder. "Mira and Aryan have a rule in place where they don't fuck in a bed or whatever."
Herrera's dark brows wrinkle. He's still in his sweaty clothes from practice and Charlie told him he's not allowed to sit on the couch in them so his scowl swivels to me from his place on the rug. "I agree with Kenna. That's dumb as fuck," he tells me flatly.
Motherfucker doesn't mince words, does he?
Neither do I. "You're dumb as fuck."
His scowl deepens. "There's nothing special about fucking in a bed, Zahed," she argues. "I've fucked a lot of bitches in a bed. You think they care about me or I care about them?"
I roll my eyes at his crassness, while Dija blinks hard like she misheard. I shake my head, replying neatly, "What would your Call of Duty girlfriend say about all your bitches, Herrera?"
He shoots up on the rug. "Who told you about that?"
Charlie strokes a thumb along his chin where he stands behind Dija, face contemplative. Then, his eyes go to me and he asks simply, "Why?"
The simplicity of his question makes me shift on the couch, feeling defensive all of a sudden. I'd rather take Raf's offensive over Charlie's calm questioning. My eyes narrow on Charlie's hand on Dija's shoulder. Come on. He should understand. Right?
"Because," I snap hard at Charlie, then pause, faltering to grasp at straws. "Because— it's complicated."
"What's complicated?" Aryan's voice is perfectly calm for someone who threw me on his bed and didn't kiss me.
My head whips around to where he idles at the mouth of the hall pouring out into the living room, his hands sliding into the pockets of black sweats.
I suppose my predicament could be worse. They could be grey.
Still, Raf opens his mouth, the most likely to answer him because bromance or whatever, and I intervene, quickly unpausing the game. The screen flares to life and like that, Herrera's attention is occupied, head twisting as he scrambles to his controller.
Kenna, who thankfully has my back, straightens and says to Aryan, "Nothing,"
His eyes flick to me. He has no reason to apologise for not kissing me, yet there's a flicker of apology in the downward tilt of his mouth. And again, I'm wrapped up tight in the urge to kiss him.
I look away, curling my fingers around my controller, but I look back up acutely when he challenges, "Best two out of three, Zahed."
♥ ♥ ♥
TIME IS A RESTLESS, FLIGTY THING WHEN COMPARED to the low drawl of his voice. I don't know how she's gone by so quickly.
"Come on, Zahed," Aryan hums, after the stars start to peak through the dark blue of the sky, hand slipping through mine and he pulls me up off the couch. "You're spending the night."
I stare at our hands for a stupid moment. "What?"
Earlier events resurface in my mind but it's clear he's lamenting. Hell, he even gave me the last slice of pizza that Charlie ordered, claiming that vegan pizza sucked, even though I'd watched him clean off the very same pizza at the barn that night.
Minutes had turned into hours in Charlie's living room, the ocean stirring beyond the large glass doors overlooking the balcony, the sky darkening. Aryan, Herrera and I had played about thirty rounds of the game and it only took two rounds for Raf and I to put aside our differences and team up against him. We'd spent the majority of the time chasing Aryan around the map, laughing until our sides hurt and then high-fiving when one of us finally caught up to his unlucky ass.
Our unholy alliance, as Kenna termed it.
Aryan watched us high-five wearing a deep scowl, though his lips would twitch upward and give him away when he tossed the controller down onto the cushions of his chair.
"Don't be a sore loser, Shankar," was Raf's victory statement as he cracked open a winner's Coca Cola at the fridge.
I'd grinned and accepted the can Raf handed me. "Yeah, don't be a sore loser, Shankar."
I didn't even get to cheers with Raf before the can was stolen out of my hand and Aryan was taking a sip. "You two saying something? Hell, I'm parched as fuck."
Then, Kenna forced us all to watch a movie. Something lovey-dovey that had so much kissing in the rain that I started to worry about pneumonia.
When she'd announced it, she and Dija squealed while Raf and Aryan groaned.
When I said I never watched it, she gasped so loud I swear all of Santa Monica heard it.
Charlie also proceeded to judge me.
And though Kenna laughed the loudest during the movie, clutching her sides and Dija like she was in actual pain, my ears held onto one particular laugh, Aryan's laugh filtering past my chest like sunshine.
At one point, he'd gotten up and gone to the kitchen behind us and I'd gotten the strong urge to follow him just because I wanted to hear him to laugh with me and me alone just for a moment, so I could have the sound all to myself.
But I refrained and he was back again after shifting around behind the kitchen island for a bit. I was aware of every trace of his gaze on the back of my head. Even still, I jumped when cold metal was pressed to my shoulder. I didn't even need to turn around to see Aryan's grin as he stood behind me and dropped the can into my hands.
It's complicated, I'd said to Charlie. And yet it's monumentally easy to just spend an evening with him close by.
Fucks sake.
What's he doing?
So of course, after the movie ended and Charlie offers to drive Dija home as the sky outside grew ten times darker than it had been when I arrived, the slow pull of his hand in mine makes me stare at him like I'd misheard.
Herrera, on the rug, and Kenna, down the couch, glance between us. Then, Raf lets out a mighty yawn, stretching his arms over his head. Kenna perks up too.
"Nope," she snaps. "You're not showering before me. Nope."
And she bolts up just as he bolts up, both of them racing down the hall to their respective bathrooms, cussing each other out as they go. I blink. Like that, they're gone.
"I can drive home," I say because it's the thing to say. Common sense dictates that I have no reason to stay. My car is parked in the yard.
My hand in his dictates something else.
"It's late," is his meaningful reply.
My heart ticks away in my chest. He wants me to stay.
I have so many things to say and yet I don't know how to say any of them.
I wanted you to kiss me.
Or Your laugh is my favourite sound lately. It reminds me of the sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows in the morning. It reminds me of home. It makes me feel safe.
And I even like it when we fight. You push me around and I get to push back. I like that you don't hold anything back. I like that you only kiss me harder in the face of all my ugly.
I just nod.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't flick on any lights, the door clicking behind me, leaving only the silvery moonlight beaming in past the glass wall. The ocean stirs in the distance outside the glass, restless.
I glance at the glowing red numbers on the clock beside his bed and it reads 12:34.
It's midnight, it's late, we've had classes today and we have classes tomorrow and yet he's leaning in and I think he's going to kiss me and I would let him. But then he doesn't. Instead, he fingers the sleeve of my dress, brows lowered before he turns away from me, rifling through the drawer tucked opposite his desk. I hear him yawn as he does and I know he won't kiss me, not tonight.
I knew that. But I stayed. And that's confusing. Because if he's not kissing me, if he's not whispering dirty words in my ear, if he's not just fucking me, what is he doing to me?
My heart hammers in my chest. I'm not supposed to get butterflies just from a can Coca Cola. I'm not supposed to want to bottle his laughter up and listen to it on loop.
I'm even more confused when he finally spins back around and tosses a bundled up piece of clothing at me.
If he senses all the thoughts swirling inside my head, he kindly says nothing.
I blink, catching what he's thrown and unfurling cloth. My eyes narrow.
"You'll need something to sleep in," he says for the first time since the door shut.
It's a t-shirt. It's a relatively old t-shirt with a Minion on it. A bright, yellow, grinning idiot Minion.
"This belongs to a twelve-year-old child," I comment scathingly, swallowing all the hesitation in my throat.
Aryan leans his back against his dresser, lips twitching at my tone. "Yeah," he replies. "It was mine."
"Usually, boys give girls their nicest hoodies. Sprayed all up with their expensive cologne," I note. "But not you, huh? I get your old Minion t-shirt."
He crosses his arms over his chest. "It'll fit you just fine. Stop being a brat."
I roll my eyes after him as he steps off the dresser and proceeds to his adjoining bathroom. I move to follow and I'm behind him as he reaches the doorway when he halts. Aryan tilts his head over his shoulder and grins at me. "Besides, it's boyfriends who do that kinda shit with the hoodies. I'm not your boyfriend now am I?"
I stare at him.
He laughs, palms braced on the doorframe, his shoulders shaking as he peers back at me.
Asshole. He's back to his usual asshole ways.
It's a comfort though, weirdly.
I roll my eyes and plant a palm between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward into the bathroom.
Well, I don't exactly push him because he's literally made of fucking stone and muscle and 6 foot fucking 4.
He steps forward on his own accord and proceeds to brush his teeth, grinning at me in the reflection of his mirror, a toothpaste grin. He doesn't wait for me or anything and I don't expect him to because, after all, he's not my boyfriend.
Aryan finishes his routine, eyes holding mine in the mirror. He breaks my stare to pat his face dry with a towel and then he's turned back to me, cheeks flushed, dark, long lashes still glistening with a few stray drops of water that make his eyes sparkle like constellations. Those lashes flutter as he lowers his gaze to mine and presses a spare toothbrush into my hand. Butterflies.
For fucks sake.
"The floor's yours, Zahed," he tells me, hand falling from mine and then he's out the door.
I swallow hard, stare at my reflection and the way she's all fucking flustered because Aryan fucking Shankar handed her a toothbrush and a Minion t-shirt but he's not her boyfriend but she's staying.
I glance away and turn around, spying him in his still darkened room, shed of his shirt as he tears through his drawer again. The door clicks shut when I push it.
I curl my fingers around the toothbrush and rest it onto the counter, slinging the tee on a rack behind me so it won't get wet as I proceed to splash ice-cold water on my face as if that'll do anything against the heat happening elsewhere. At the traitorous organ tucked neatly behind my ribs.
I scrub my face clean and hope his face wash did the job of a makeup wipe. I could just ask Kenna but I don't want to leave his room and shatter the strangely, achingly domestic spell we've cast.
Once finished with it all, I drop the toothbrush with a clink beside his in the cup— his red one is still in my bathroom— and blink furiously at my reflection.
My dress hangs on the rack the t-shirt had been on and he was right. It fit me fine. Still, I scowl at the yellow head on its front, angrily tugging the fabric down to the top of my cotton panties as if that would make the Minion scurry away. To no avail.
When I step out of the bathroom, my legs are entirely bare, bottom clad only in my black undies but I'm not shy at all because well— obviously. Aryan is leaned back amidst his sheets, chest bare, arm slung behind his head and a side on the right of the bed left open with my name on it.
I swallow and linger in the doorway, his gaze flicking lazily my way as if he'd forgotten I was there. Asshole.
Aryan yawns. "You planning on sleeping in the tub, Zahed?"
I can tell he's tired and the spot beside him is inviting but I want to be a brat and annoy him just a little while longer. Hands on my hips, I say, "You didn't give me any pants."
Aryan drawls, "You hate pants."
I drop my hands. He's right. Why does he know that?
I narrow my eyes and close the door behind me but don't take another step.
"I usually sleep on the left."
"Too bad," replies Aryan unapologetically. "You actually sleep on top of me anyway, if I recall correctly. A whole bear hug and everything."
I glower. He merely tilts his head back and yawns up at the ceiling.
I stay planted long enough that he looks back down and rolls his eyes at me. "If you're going to sleep in the tub, at least take a pillow with you. I'm not a monster. You get one pillow for the road. No more." He pats the pillow beside his own before lifting his eyes to me. I stare at him like I've this is the first time I've ever seen him, heart pounding as he grins and it's all familiar again. "Deal?"
I'm being ridiculous.
I accept the invitation, drifting forward and touching the pillow. I don't grab it and scamper away to the tub. I don't know why it's so hard to climb into bed with him like this. I suppose last time we just passed out. This time, I was invited and accepted. I don't know why my heart won't shut up about it as I lay down on that spot he'd left for me and slowly tilt my head over at him.
His sheets are cool. It's not my California King so there's even less space. Aryan is facing me, lashes dancing across his cheeks. Miles of pillow separates us and yet I feel his eyes on mine like a brand.
I curl my legs up like a cat and complain to him, "You didn't give me any pants. I'll be cold."
Aryan heaves a sigh, shaking his head tiredly. I catch the unsurprised twitch of his lips before he yawns and then he reaches down to pull a cover over us.
Then, without warning, he pulls me to him, pressing my back to his chest and I'm warm instantly.
"No, you won't," he replies, breath tickling the top of my head. "Now, shut up and go to sleep, you brat."
His heart thrums near mine and I listen. I shut up.
I don't know how long has passed, his heartbeat in my ears, lulling me, when his voice sinks past the night, sleepy but earnest, "Mira, I'm sorry about earlier."
My chest rises. Nothing stops me from turning to my other side within the circle of his arms. My heart picks up when my chest touches his. Eyes seeking his tentatively in the dark, I say softly, "Don't be."
He's not my boyfriend. And we're not friends. But those are just words and right now, he's someplace warm in the night, heart beating slow against mine, and I want to stay here.
♥ ♥ ♥
THIS CHAPTER IS ALL OVER THE PLACE BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS SHIT SHOW CHAPTER (that I didn't edit either pls forgive me )