Page 13 of Touchdown, Tennessee
I couldn’t fucking wait for fall.
“Right now, what I really want is a cigarette to smoke,” I said. “But that’s something I don’t do anymore.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Ooh, badass Mr. Detective, with your bad-boy cravings,” Andrew said in a mocking voice. “Smoking isn’t good for you.”
“Andanotherthing I want is to see how desperate you’ll get, now that you have that tequila in you,” I said, watching him. “Excessive drinking isn’t good for you, either.”
“You’re the desperate one. What were you asking Max about me?”
“I asked him if you come to the Hard Spot a lot. Wasn’t exactly grilling him for your social security number, Peach.”
“You… are theworst.”
He took a few steps on the sidewalk as if he was going to leave, but he turned back to me, swaying a little on his feet.
For a split second, my guard went up.
You going to try to punch me?
But I realized quickly that Peachel was awarmdrunk, not a violent one, and I tried to quiet the alarmed beast inside me.
Trust issues, always by my side.
I usually had a sense for when people were too drunk even before they started to show it in their words or movements. Growing up in bars, and with an alcoholic mother, would do that to a person.
I’d been too focused on…otherthings while looking at Andrew for the last few minutes.
A cold spike of regret hit my chest.
Instead of focusing on my own fucked-up trust issues, I needed to make sure Andrew was safe tonight.
“You had a little too much tequila, I think,” I told him, taking a step toward him and watching as he leaned back onto the brick corner of the building, taking a deep breath in through his nostrils.
“I forgot to eat,” he said. “That’s the only reason it’s hitting me so hard.”
“Even on a game night, you didn’t eat dinner?”
He looked up at the night sky. “I get too distracted. Usually I would protein load, but Coach told us about the article being written for the paper, and I was fucking pissed.”
“Why are you so pissed about the Homecoming article?”
He furrowed his brow at me. “Because I’ve read your other stuff. You’re going to fuck us over. Worst one was that article you wrote about the Wildlife Conservatancy Club.”
“Conservationclub,” I corrected him.
His eyes went downcast.
Shit.
He wasn’t just embarrassed about getting a couple of words wrong because he was drunk.
Is intelligence your only sore spot, football prince?
I had corrected his misuse of words both times, but the moment I saw the faint blush creep onto his cheekbones, guilt pooled in my stomach.
Peachel was obviously a naturally intelligent person. Perceptive and observant. Emotionally warm, too, to everyone other than me.
