Page 3 of Top Scorer
“You are as annoying today as you’ve always been,” she barks, her fists pressed against her waist. “What do you want?”
I get a flash of the girl Ligaya was in high school, even prettier when she was riled up. And now she’s a woman whose curves could stop traffic.
WhatdoI want? What did I expect to accomplish by following her into this room instead of heading to the parking lot and putting Centerstone High in my rearview mirror where it belongs?
The only answer that makes sense is that I can’t very well let her have the last word. Old habits die hard.
“Had to make sure the shock of seeing me didn’t affect you too much. You looked a bit wobbly walking away, Terror. Not to mention, it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye,” I accuse with atsksound.
She huffs. “I’m busy tidying up the costume closet.” Ligaya gestures at the garments hanging on rolling racks along the walls of a space no bigger than a regular bedroom.
“I didn’t realize you worked here. Not likehere”—I indicate the room—“at the high school, I mean.”
I hate it when Ligaya’s right. I really do sound like a turd.
“Why would you know where I work?” She brushes a strand away from her forehead. Two swipes. It’s a familiar gesture. Something she’s always done and I’ve always noticed.
I ignore the question and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Want to grab coffee some time? A meeting of theesteemed alumni of Centerstone High Schoolis overdue,” I say casually, emphasizing the way we were introduced on the stage.
“How can I resist? You have the charm of the IRS guy who audited my parents’ laundromat.” Ligaya’s voice is teasing as she takes a step closer.
“Charmed by IRS auditors? Sounds like you need to go out more,” I quip, taking half a step closer, too.
We’re nearly toe to toe.
“How are Cathy and Orlando?” I hit pause on the snarky tone because I’m genuinely curious about her parents. It didn’t matter how much Ligaya and I bickered, her parents were always nice to me and my sister, Olive.
“Pretty good, tax audits aside,” she answers simply, accepting my truce. “They watch Mavericks hockey all the time.”
“And you, Terror? Do you watch me play for the Mavericks?”
“I’d rather sit through a three-hour PowerPoint on the history of paperclips than watch you play hockey.”
“You always were a weirdo.”
Ligaya rolls her eyes like she’s exasperated with me, yet a smile lingers.
“And your sister? Is she still active military?”
Ligaya gives a vague nod and pushes her glasses up her nose. Somehow the dark rims make her eyes pop and her lips seem extra plump and pink. Her tongue grazes her bottom lip, and the gloss of moisture tugs at my cock.
Who knew that nerdy glasses, a messy bun, and an irritated glare would do it for me? I’m used to women who get dolled up to attract hockey players. Ligaya might not give a shit about impressing anyone, but she makes my body hot and my fingers tingle. I’m tempted to tug on her hair and check if her lush mouth tastes as good as it did all those years ago.
“Tristan, are you listening to me?” Her question refocuses my attention. Whatever she was saying had turned into a distant hum when she licked her lips.
“Huh? Yeah, sure.”
“Then move over. I left my bag by the stage.” She squeezes by me and turns the knob. Wiggles it. Bangs it a bit. Wiggles again.
“Shit, you locked us in!”
“No way,” I declare before trying the door myself. “We can call the front desk.” I lift my cell to search for the school’s main number.
“This closet is a freaking dead zone,” Ligaya says dejectedly. She bangs on the door and yells for attention. I join her. After a few minutes of screaming, she slumps.
“Everyone is in their classrooms, but the drama club will let us out.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching in a classroom right now?”
