Page 81 of Scrimmage

He just leaves me there with the car running. A few people say hi to him, trying to talk to Koda fucking Armory, the stupid football player. I sink into the seat, even though no one can see me through the blackout windows. Penny texts me making me laugh. She’s watching my location.

Why are you at the Chinese place without me???

It takes me a minute to think of a response. There’s no point in hiding what I’m doing.

Football Chance kidnapped me.

My phone rings with a video call, and I answer. The only thing on the screen is a sandwich. A sad, cold sandwich.

“Do you see this?” Penny whines. “Do you?” She shoves the camera closer before turning it around to face her.

“It wasn’t my choice!” I defend myself, watching the door.

“You’re out on a date with Football Chance, eating gourmet Chinese, and I’m eating this stale sandwich.”

“This is McDonalds at best, and it’s not a date. I’m sitting in the car. I told you I was kidnapped, and you’re worried about your fucking sandwich?”

She snorts. “Kidnapped by dick doesn’t count.”

“He, like, tracked me down, Penny. He told me to come to football practice, and when I didn’t show up he fucking tracked me down and made me come to the locker room to study. Then forced me into his car.”

She picks at the sandwich. “Still not seeing the problem. That’s, like, your dream scenario. You love that controlling shit.”

Penny knows me too well. I see my attraction now.

“You’re going on cunt probation,” I grumble.

“You’re just mad. Are you coming home tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She takes a bite of her sandwich and starts talking with her mouth full. “Dicknapping, duh.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Mhm. Well it sure—”

My phone fucking powers down. I want to scream. When Koda gets back into the car he sets a bag filled with takeout boxes in the back and glances at me.

“What? Got tired of Ashland’s best hits?”

I shake my phone. “It died.”

“I’ve got a charger.” He pulls it out of the console and hands it to me.

It takes two minutes for my phone to turn on as we drive, and the music automatically starts to play as soon as I open the app. I feel fucking defeated. I switch it to Avril Lavigne and sulk.

“Why are you in a bad mood?” he asks.

“I’m not.”

“Twenty minutes ago you were torturing me with some flute song, and now you’re playing Avril Lavigne.”

“I’m surprised you even know who that is.”

“Alexi had a thing for her in middle school.” I reach over to turn it off, and he slaps my hand away. “Leave it.”

“You hate this,” I point out.

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