Page 16 of Blindside Me
“Maybe I did. Maybe I like competition.” She places her hand on the bench, eyes dancing with mirth, and shifts forward. She’s closer now, way too close. I can feel the heat coming off her skin, or maybe it’s just the way her eyes spark like she already knows I’m seconds from losing it.
A muscle jumps at my temple. Reel it in, Big Guy. Focus. But no sooner than I tell myself this, the grip on my stick tightens anyway.
I scoff, voice low. “This your thing, then? Rile me up, make me screw up, then disappear?”
She shrugs. “Not my thing. But I could make an exception.”
And damn if that doesn’t hit somewhere it shouldn’t. I need to redirect this conversation.
“Maybe they’re just waiting for you to screw up again, so Coach makes you clean up behind them.”
For the first time, she looks like she might fold in on herself.
“Yeah, feels that way sometimes.”
The softness in her voice has me instantly regretting my words. I don’t mean to be a dick. It just happens when I feel cornered. And she’s got me feeling things I shouldn’t.
“What did you and your uncle argue about the other night?” I ask to smooth things over.
“I didn’t mention an argument.”
“I pieced it together. You showing up at Beats. Him not liking you there.” I shrug. “Seems like an escape.”
Another long pause. “I wanted to live in the dorms. Uncle wanted me at his house.”
“Who won?”
The way those glossy lips spread into a smile and light her entire face makes me salivate. Damn. She really is pretty.
“Me.”
I go back to my stick, winding tighter than I need to. Crisp. Clean. Controlled.
“So what’s it like, being you?” she asks.
I blink. “Being me?”
“Having it all figured out.”
I don’t answer. Not because I’m ignoring her, but because I can’t.
“What’s the one thing you’re afraid people will discover?” she asks next.
My hands still. Just for a second.
Her voice is so casual, like she didn’t just stab me through the ribs with a whisper.
“That bad, huh?” she teases.
“Not afraid of anything,” I say, but the lie sounds off in my own ears.
She tilts her head, grinning. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Captain Overkill.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that you’re always here first. Always stay last. Probably sleep next to your skates, dreaming of drills. What’s the story?”
I glare. “I work hard. That’s the point.”
