Page 1 of Flagrant Foul
1
Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly
Thereheis,thebane of my existence. The man otherwise known as Sev Delorean, the Blackeyes’ first-line defenseman. He’s sitting directly across the table from me, so close that if I were to kick my foot out, I’d connect with his shin. I’m tempted to do it, but that probably says more about me than it does him.
The waitress places his food in front of him, fawning over him as expected. She makes a big song and dance about how hot his plate is, how he should beso carefulnot to touch it, and how he should let her know if he needs help with anything,anything at all.
Strangely, she seems happy enough for the rest of us to learn that our plates are hot the hard way.
Still, in the scheme of things, she’s doing all right. She’s not blushing furiously or touching his arm, she hasn’t asked him for his number, and she hasn’t forgotten to leave the table, so all in all, she should feel pretty good about herself. I’ve seen worse.
He does this stupid thing when he looks down at his plate, a little dance of sorts. He always does it when he’s happy with his meal choice, and he’s one of those people who is always happy with his meal choice. It’s a little hip wiggle combined with a shoulder shuffle. It’s meant to be adorable, and sadly, it is.
It annoys the unholy crap out of me.
His eyes are still trained on his plate, fork in hand, loaded and ready to go. I tighten my core and arrange my face into a passive, expressionless mask as I wait for it. I count down slowly, taking care to breathe through my nose.
Three
Two
One
And there it is. Barely audible, but there.
“Hmm.”
Ahmmso soft and throaty, no one else at the table hears it. Or if they do, it doesn’t affect them the way it affects me. I don’t just hear it. I feel it. In my mouth. On my lips and my tongue. I feel it all the way down my body. It tastes sweet at first but quickly turns bitter.
I drop my gaze to my wrist without moving my head. Eight minutes. It’s been eight fucking minutes since he looked at me. I wish I didn’t notice things like this. Iwish I had it in me not to count and keep score. It’s just that the man has known me most of my life and is sitting right across from me. Directly across the table. Less than three feet away, yet he still somehow manages to render me invisible. That takes some doing at this proximity. If things were different, I might be impressed by his skill.
A minute ticks by.
And another.
My agitation increases exponentially with each one. I know myself well enough to know I’m going to react soon. I’ll try not to, but I will. I’ll do something inane like accuse him of chewing too loudly. He’ll shrug as though he doesn’t care, but at least he’ll look at me. It will be a sheepish look with a trace of hurt that I passionately hate, but it will give me the thing I need. The thing I crave more than anything else.
Sev’s attention.
The tight burn of tension makes my joints lock. There’s a push and a pull. A fight between the desperate, childish yearning to feel his eyes on me, and the utter humiliation of having to stoop to such depths to achieve it.
“'Sup, T-Dog?” he asks, saving me from myself.
He takes care to look at my mouth, not into my eyes. My pulse spikes. From rage. Mainly from rage. I hate itwhen he calls me by my team nickname. I hate it more than I can say.
For one thing, I hate the nickname with the fire of a thousand suns, and for another, I hate the way he says it. That low, sluggish drawl kills me dead. Literally stops my heart. Cuts my chest open and rearranges my organs. Still, the real reason I hate it isn’t the nickname or the way he says it. It’s the fact that it’s not the name he knows me by. The name I know myself by. The name he gave me when we were kids. The name no one calls me but him.
“Not hungry? Food okay?”
There are lots of ways this can play out from here. I know that because I’ve played them all out many, many times over.
If I were feeling greedy, I could shake my head sadly and tell him there’s something wrong with my meal. My chicken is dry. My veggies are underdone. My fork tastes funny. You name it, I could claim it. It wouldn’t matter how stupid the reason, he’d have his new bestie, Sasha the waitress, over here in double quick time. He’d have my meal sent back and charm the poor girl to such an extent that while he was at it, she’d thank him for bringing the matter to her attention, and mean it. It’s happened before. Lots of times.
If I were in the mood for something a little stronger, I could say, “What’s it to you?” in a mild tone, and add a venomous, “Butt out, asswipe,” when no one was looking. Hurt feelings would turn his mouth into a frown that would vanish so quickly it would be hard to believe it was ever there in the first place. He’d throw his head back and glare down his nose at me. His expression would harden, and from there, there’s no telling what we’d say to each other.
One thing is for certain: it would be unpleasant.
I consider this tactic a failure. It’s completely beneath me. It’s lacking in maturity, shows zero emotional intelligence or self-awareness, and speaks to a level of neediness that’s frankly, deeply humiliating.
