“I don’t make the rules, Harp. And neither does coach,” Trent says. Sometimes I want to punch my friend. He’s like Dudley-Do-Right, even when he’s being logical.
“Well, unless he’s planning on sitting me tomorrow, which fuck it if he is, I’m pretty sure our talk can wait until then,” I say, repositioning my heavy bag on my arm.
Trent rolls his eyes, but then turns his attention back to Lindsey. Lindsey is his type. I should just give her to him, rid myself of this entire dumb fucking idea I had.
“Hey, I’m Trent,” he says, shaking her hand.
“Hey, I’m Trent,” I repeat, mocking him. He doesn’t turn to look at me when he reaches to the side and punches me in the right peck. “Ow…fuck nut!”
“You must be Emma?” Trent asks. Fucker did that on purpose.
I’d feel bad about the look on Lindsey’s face right now except I’m pretty sure the look on mine is worse. He called her Emma, which means somewhere along the way he noticed that name. He saw her license once, briefly, but I didn’t think he memorized it. And I get enough from the quick glance he shoots me to know that he’s trying to make this a teachable moment.
Not in the mood, Trent. I’m so far in on a bad idea there’s really no way to get out now. Quit making it worse.
“She’s…my roommate,” Lindsey says, her voice half of the volume it was before.
“He knows that. He’s just a really shitty listener. This is Lindsey, Trent. And thanks for paying attention to me when I talk.” I lay it on super thick, and Lindsey eats it up. Trent’s eyes become slits, and I know I’ve only made him more curious. Just one more thing I’ll think about atoning for…or not. Might as well embrace this piece-of-shit guy I’ve become.
“Right, my mistake,” Trent says. What he really means is “What are you up to, you asshole?” I put my arm around Lindsey and lead her out ahead of him. This conversation between them—it’s done.
Trent heads to his car, and probably to Majerle’s, which is where I’d planned on going with Lindsey after the game, but now I just want to get her back to her apartment so I can go through with everything I chickened out on last night. She seems all right with it, too, her fingers hooked onto mine over her shoulder as we walk the six blocks to her apartment.
My back is killing me from carrying my gear. I normally dump it in Trent’s car, or drop it off at home before we go out, but those weren’t options tonight. Maybe I’ll somehow work a back rub out of this.
I feel a charge when we get to her front door, and I know why it’s there. It’s there because I anticipated this—the look on Emma’s face the second I walk in behind Lindsey. In a second, her eyes go from Lindsey’s to mine, and down to the sweatshirt folded over her purse.
There’s that disappointment I was banking on. I grin, and she catches it before quickly looking away.
Lindsey dumps her purse on the table as we walk in, and I take advantage of it, picking up the sweatshirt and twisting it in my hands to make it even smaller. Emma watches the entire time, her cheek caught between her teeth while she rethinks her decision to send her friend out in it in the first place.
That’s right, Emma. This bothers you more than it bothers me.
“How was the awards dinner?” Lindsey asks from behind Emma as she opens the fridge to pull out a beer for each of us.
“It was good.”
I don’t think Emma even registered her answer. She’s too busy staring at the sweatshirt—her eyes never blinking as she watches my hands work the fabric as I step closer to her.
“Here,” I whisper, handing it to her. She takes the other side, and for a second we’re both holding on, like a tug of war. Her eyes flash to mine, and I notice she stops breathing. I should stop here, but something happens when she looks at me, and I step in a little closer, close enough that I know she can feel my breath. “Are we done now?”
I let go of my grip, but I keep my eyes locked with hers. For a brief moment, she looks wounded, and I start to smile.
“I met someone,” she says. She’s speaking to Lindsey, but as the left side of her mouth starts to rise, her eyes haze, and something stronger steps in place of the girl who was letting me walk all over her a second ago.
You think I care that you met someone, Emma Burke? Go ahead—make me care.
“Oh yeah?” Lindsey moves into my side, handing me a beer. I put my arm around her and let my hand cup her shoulder. Emma’s eyes move to it, so I loosen my grip and drag my fingers along her arm suggestively, just to see if Emma’s gaze follows. It does, and I take a very satisfied, long drink, not bothering to hide the smile on my lips behind the bottle.