Page 32 of A Little Complicated

Fuck that.

9

OPHELIA

The sun is setting in the sky, painting the horizon in different shades of oranges, pinks, and purples as I march down the winding path from the arena on campus. It’s lined with green grass and flows all throughout LAU’s property like its own little subway system. If I stay right, I can make it from the arena to home without ever having to leave the black pavement. One of the main roads is on my right, but the streets are quiet this time of day, and I soak up the ambiance while cursing under my breath as my gym bag swings by my side.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I can’t believe I let Maverick get to me. Can’t believe I stormed out of there like a freaking baby. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve finished the game. And I definitely shouldn’t have let Maverick see how he affects me.

But motherfucker, his smirk and the way it reaches his eyes? It’s like it has a direct line to my freaking libido, which is the last thing I need. Especially when he’s so freaking arrogant and has no issue throwing my relationship with his brother in my face any chance he can.

Asshole.

I still don’t understand why he does it. Why he feels like he has any right to paint me as the bad guy when he’s the one who broke my heart in the first place.

You wanna blame someone for this mess, Maverick? Blame yourself.

I let out a huff, but it’s cut off by the rumble of an engine on the otherwise silent street.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a motorcycle coming up the road and heading straight toward me. I step a little further away from the asphalt, giving the motorcycle idiot plenty of space in case he decides to run over the curb and hit me with the beast. Instead of passing me, the motorcycle slows. Hair prickles along the back of my neck, and I squeeze my gym bag strap while sneaking another peek over my shoulder.

Black leather. Black bike. Black helmet. Chrome accents.

Who the hell is this person?

It’s clearly a guy, thanks to the broad shoulders hidden beneath the leather jacket and the thick thighs wrapped in dark denim. He pulls to a complete stop beside me, his boots hitting the ground as he reaches for his helmet. Fear races down my spine, and I tear my attention from the stranger, quickening my pace down the sidewalk when a low voice calls, “Opie!”

My muscles freeze, and I turn around to face the stranger again.

Maverick?

The name lodges in my throat. I fold my arms, watching as the stranger slips his helmet off, confirming my suspicion.

Sure enough. I’d recognize those rogue waves anywhere. They’re a mess of coffee and caramel and look damp from the shower he probably took after I threw a fit and left the game. I should feel better knowing it’s Maverick and not some stranger stalking me. Instead, I’m even more amped up than I was.

My eyes trail down his body one more time, and my lips pull to one side as I cross my arms. “You’re joking.”

“About what?”

“This is yours?”

He looks down at the motorcycle still nestled between his thighs and pats the engine. “Sure is.”

“I’m sorry. Do you have a death wish?”

With a dark chuckle, he lifts his shoulder. “You only live once, right?”

“Do your parents know you bought one of these?”

“Over twenty-one, babe. I don’t need their permission.”

I scoff and step closer. “Yeah, because you know you wouldn’t get it if you asked. These things are seriously dangerous—”

“I’m a big boy, Opie. Although I appreciate your concern.” He rests his helmet in front of him. “It’s hot as fuck.”

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