Page 130 of Wrong Pucking Player

Smart ass.

Copycat.

Admit it. You copied me.

Where are you?

Needed another smoke.

Stressed?

I’m watching the text bubble for sixty-five seconds before he replies.

A little.

I expect him to say more, but the seconds keep ticking away.

Wanna talk about it now?

I can come up.

Are you done with your cigarette?

No.

Chill there for a bit. We can FaceTime. I’m not sure if Wyatt’s here, though.

He’s not.

How do you know?

Sour Patch Kid went to piss in the building gym bathroom.

Sour Patch Kid. Is that his nickname in your mind?

No. Can’t call him Cyrus Jr. when he’s being a sour puss.

You insulting people is kind of hot.

Because you’re fed and horny.

I gasp at his accusation before my fingers are typing wildly onto the screen.

I AM NOT HORNY, ARMANI!

If I have to watch those hard nips of yours poke out of anything white again, I’ll be doing more than just picking up and dropping you off in the washroom.

I drop my phone.

His phone.

“OMG!” I exclaim and uncross my legs to lean down to grab the device, begging the phone gods that the screen isn’t cracked.

And it’s cracked.

Uh…I did something bad.

Stripped out of your shorts and underwear and danced around your place in my jersey.

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