Page 22 of A Little Complicated

With a nod, Maverick offers his wrist. The kid snaps a handcuff around it, giving me a look that says, “You too.”

My brows crinkle, but I raise my arm, mimicking Maverick’s offer. The metal is cold against my skin as the guy snaps it into place and moves on to the next team, leaving me alone—and literally chained—to the man beside me.

If only I didn’t know he’d prefer to be teamed up with literally anyone else in the world. And the silence? The way he’s avoiding me? It’s not exactly comfortable. I wipe my hands against my shorts, but Maverick’s arm follows. The back of his hand almost brushes against my crotch until I realize what’s happening. My body locks up for a split second, and I straight-arm us both until our hands hang in front of us like we’re starring in a zombie movie.

“Shit, sorry,” I rush out. My cheeks flame as I stare at the ground in front of me, willing it to open up and swallow me entirely.

“Just…don’t move,” Mav mutters, slowly urging me to drop our hands to our sides.

“Got it.” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

The awkward silence is deafening, but at least he isn’t being a sarcastic dickhead, so I guess it’s a win, right? Then again, I’m not sure I’m a fan of him ignoring me, either. He can’t even look at me, and I’m a foot away from him.

Rocking back on my heels, I peek up at Mav and ask, “So…who was that?”

“Who?”

I tilt my head toward the guy with the handcuffs.

When he realizes who I’m talking about, he challenges, “Why? Do you want his number too?”

“Wow.” I ignore the sharp twinge in my chest and start to fold my arms, belatedly remembering we’re still cuffed together. Fisting my hands at my sides, I mutter, “And here I thought you were giving asshole Maverick a night off.”

“And here I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Okay, fine,” I huff. “We won’t talk. We’ll just silently stand next to each other until the game starts.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, not awkward at all, and it definitely won’t raise any red flags to all your friends, now will it?” I glare up at him, daring him to tell me I’m wrong when we both know I’m not.

“Fine.” His nostrils flare as he looks over my head. “I don't know his name. He’s a freshman.”

“And he’s on handcuff duty?”

“The younger class helps with the shit work until they prove themselves and we let them participate in the games.”

“But not me?” I prod. “I’m a freshman, and I haven’t proven myself—”

“You’re a girl.”

“So?”

“The guys give free passes to the girls,” he clarifies whilestillavoiding my gaze like I was diagnosed with syphilis or something.

I’d be offended if the reminder of which head guys like to think with didn’t amuse me. “Of course they—”

Someone runs into Maverick, and like a stack of dominos, he bumps into me, bringing us chest-to-chest. My breath catches as his familiar scent washes over me, the memories of all our late nights together crashing into me all at once. Every inch of his body presses against mine. My hands are splayed against his pecs, the steady thump-thump of his heart beating against my palm. His warmth. His scent. His arms.

Snap the hell out of it, Lia!

I step back and tuck my hair behind my ear with my uncuffed hand. “So…are you still competitive?” I ask.

“You could say so.” He clears his throat. “You?”

My mouth lifts, and I look up at him. “You could say so.”

“Well, at least we have a chance of winning,” he grumbles. His eyes fall to our connected hands, his jaw tightening as he looks away, not saying another word.

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