Page 37 of The Wrong Play

I debated walking past her, but her head tilted up slightly, like she had some kind of sixth sense for drama, and she waved me over.

I sighed, gripping my coffee like it could physically anchor me, and walked toward her.

Tasha groaned as I slid into the seat across from her. “Too early,” she muttered. “Too bright.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing sunglasses.”

She just groaned louder, resting her forehead against the table for a moment before snapping her head up. “Wait.” Her head tilted slightly, assessing me from behind the dark lenses. “You didn’t go home early last night, did you?”

My stomach dropped, but I forced a casual shrug. “I—uh—yeah, I mean. Kinda. I left.”

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

Shit.

I cleared my throat and took a deliberate sip of my coffee. “I—um—talked to someone for a second, but that’s it.”

Tasha perked up instantly, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Talked?” She grinned, too wide, too smug. “That’s all?”

I swallowed hard, keeping my face neutral. “Yeah.”

She hummed, tapping her fingers against the table, unconvinced. “That’s funny.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s funny?”

She stretched, rolling her neck like she was settling in for a long interrogation. “Because I could have sworn I saw you dancing with Jace Thatcher last night.”

My blood turned to ice.

I fought to keep my expression impassive, but my grip on my coffee tightened just a little too much. “Oh,” I said, forcing nonchalance. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Tasha’s grin was positively evil. “You guess?”

I shrugged, looking at my coffee like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. “It was just for a second.”

Tasha leaned forward, her glassy, hungover eyes still way too sharp. “Just a second?”

I nodded.

She smirked. “Just a second with Jace Fucking Thatcher?”

I groaned, slumping into my seat. “Why are you saying his name like that?”

She ignored my question entirely. “Do you know who he is?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “I?—”

Tasha grinned. “Jace. Thatcher,” she said his name again, slow and deliberate, like I was missing something massive.

I rolled my eyes. “I get it. You’re very impressed.”

She let out a high-pitched laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, babe. You really don’t get it.”

I exhaled sharply, already exhausted. “Okay. Enlighten me.”

She gestured wildly, like it should have been obvious. “He’s onlytheJace Thatcher. Wide receiver. Star player. Campus fucking royalty.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Rumor is he’s a Sphinx recruit too. He could literally say he wants someone, and they’d drop their panties on the spot.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t know what the Sphinx was. But I did have personal experience with that last part of her statement.

---