Page 1 of The Confidant
1
SCARLETT
“How’s thisweek’s article coming?” I walked over to where my best friend, Hunter Blackwell, was typing at his computer station in the journalism classroom Monday afternoon.
The Eden Falls Gazette—our school’s online newspaper—was set to go live Wednesday morning, and since I was the lead editor, it was my job to check in with the newspaper staff and make sure their articles were where they needed to be.
“I’m almost done.” Hunter turned away from his computer to look up at me with his green eyes. “Just writing about the boys’ basketball game on Friday night.”
“Oh, good,” I said, bending over to read what he’d typed into the word processor.
I didn’t actually need to check in on what he was doing, since Hunter was one of the more responsible students in the class. But because I had so few opportunities to be close to him these days, I checked his article anyway.
My eyes scanned over the black text. As I read about the game against the New Haven Bulldogs, I resisted the urge to breathe in the scent of his delicious cologne—the cologne I’d bought him last spring when he’d gone from best friend to boyfriend in those few short weeks.
I both loved and hated that he still wore the cologne. Loved it because it was my favorite scent on earth—a scent that smelled especially amazing when mixed with his body chemistry. But also hated because it reminded me of how happy and delusional I’d been back then—to think that I could date the guy who’d been my best friend since sophomore year and not have things get complicated when my dad found out and made me break up with him.
“Is it okay?” Hunter asked in his deep voice, bringing me back to the present.
“It is,” I said, making my gaze focus on the words again. “This is all really good. I think you just forgot to mention who made the winning three-point shot.”
“Yeah…” He lifted his arm to run his hand through his chestnut-colored hair. “I might have left that out on purpose…”
“You did?” I asked. “Why?”
“Don’t you think that would come off as bragging?” Hunter dropped his arm back onto his lap, and I tried not to notice how muscular his forearms looked with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. “Since everyone will know that I’m the one who wrote the article?”
“It’s not bragging if it’s true,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I guess…”
But when he didn’t make a move to fix it, I slid the keyboard to the side so I could type:With thirty seconds left on the clock, it looked like the New Haven Bulldogs would win the game. Not about to accept defeat, Carter Hastings stole the ball from the Bulldogs point guard and passed it to Mack Aarden. Aarden then dribbled it halfway down the court before passing it to Hunter Blackwell. With just two seconds left on the clock, Blackwell aimed for a three-point shot and got nothing but net. When the final buzzer sounded, the Wolves claimed their victory with a final score of sixty-three to sixty-two.
“There,” I said, standing up straight again. “Now it’s more accurate.”
Hunter looked over what I’d written. “You’re the boss, I guess.”
“Yes, I am,” I said with a smile, probably a little too happy to use my power as lead editor.
But Hunter was way too humble for his own good and deserved to get credit for how well he played on the court instead of always transferring the accolades to our friends Carter and Mack.
“Hopefully, you approve of what I wrote about the girls’ game on Thursday,” he said.
“You didn’t mention the part where I missed all of my foul shots, did you?” I mean, I believed in honest reporting and everything. And I prided myself on how accurate the school’s newspaper was. But highlighting how I’d been way off my game last Thursday certainly wasn’t necessary, right? Especially when my teammates had so many other great moments.
“Nah.” He waved the thought away. “The only time I mentioned your name was when I talked about you stealing the ball from the other team and making it impossible for them to score the shot they needed to win.”
“Okay, good.” I sighed.
“And I assume you already have your article on the school musical written up and submitted?” Hunter asked with the crooked smile that I loved on his lips.
“I did that Saturday night.” I returned his smile. “Gotta write it up while it’s all fresh.”
“Who needs sleep anyway?” He winked, referencing to how we’d already been up until midnight celebrating an amazing opening night ofThe Phantom of the Operawith our friends who were in the musical. “Sleeping in is what Sunday mornings are for, right?”
“Right…” I said, even though Sunday mornings weren’t really for sleeping in. Not for me, anyway.
Not since my dad expected me to stream our church’s Sunday service live at ten o’clock each week—dressed in my Sunday best, no less—so I could be ready for his interview immediately after.
