You guessed it. NewGirl’s house.
Check out these pics of the duo and tell me what you think. Is there a true love connection happening here? I’m no expert, but something in this blonde bombshell’s eyes tells me she’ll be getting over everyone’s favorite QB-1 in no time.
But be careful, SeXyBeAsT. KingMidas isn’t known to graciously take a loss.
Later, Peeps.
—P
Chapter 9
WEST
Dane’s advice has been stuck in my head all day.
When I passed Southside before first hour. When she entered the cafeteria. And now, as I’m posted outside the locker room trying to look casual, knowing I’m guilty of that stalking shit she accused me of before.
There’s just this impulse in my gut, urging me to plead my case. Hopefully, without saying too much, which I know is probably impossible, but fuck. I’m losing my shit.
I spot her and I’m instantly on the move.
“Southside,” I call out, damn-near sprinting toward her, which makes her pick up speed with hopes of avoiding me.
No such luck.
She’s maybe three feet from making it into the girl’s locker room when I catch up and manage to wedge myself between her and the door. Lucky for me, Rodriquez—cockblocker extraordinaire—is nowhere in sight.
Southside gives the mother of all eye rolls when I gently take her shoulders and move her aside as a group of chicks approach. They level weird looks at us as they pass by, heading in to change for gym. I don’t care about that, though. Yeah, I’m abso-fucking-lutely positive I look like a maniac, but who gives a shit?
“You don’t owe me a chance to say a single word. I know that,” I say first, “but I’m begging you. I’m only trying to say I’m sorry for how things went down.”
She steps back and slips from the light hold I have on her.
“You’re not deaf, West, so I’m sure you heard me say we’re done talking,” she snaps.
There’s no mention of the marks I’m sporting from yesterday’s fight, but I see her eyeing them.
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” she adds. “Hence the reason I blocked your ass last night,” she says in a low hiss. “And for the record, FUCK your apology.”
She moves to step around me and, despite knowing I shouldn’t, I take her shoulders again. Immediately, I release them when she flashes a death glare my way. Instead, I opt to plead with her again. This time, I’m completely aware of the freshman doing a shit job of hiding behind a locker, taking pictures.
Pandora has eyes everywhere. A loyal following despite no one even having a clue who the bitch really is.
My gaze snaps back toward Southside.
“Listen, I know things are jacked up right now. Believe me. But I didn’t—”
Just that easy, the words almost slip out. The one thing I’m not allowed to say—revealing that I’m not the one who posted the video—was so close to tumbling out. Desperate to be heard, I’m not thinking clearly.
At all.
My breaths come hard and fast. Southside’s staring but hasn’t walked away yet, which is a small victory, I guess. It’s clear she’s sick of my ass, though. I’m actually positive there’s nothing in this world she’d want more than to be left alone right now.
Which is when I remember Dane’s words from the night before. Something about starting small, and then something about not backing her into a corner.
Kind of like I am now.
So, I go against my nature and fall back, give her room to breathe despite wanting to push and be heard, which isn’t going so well anyway.
“Sorry I bothered you,” is where I leave it.
She’s eyeing me, maybe a little surprised I’m not pushing as hard as expected, but I’m trying to stick to the plan. The one that has me feeling like I’m leaving things between us unfinished as I back off.
My gaze slips from her eyes, down the length of her, resenting the hell out of this intense energy that keeps us strung together. It’s what makes me want her even when her mean ass gives me the cold shoulder, or when she tears my fucking ego to shreds.
I earned this, though. Every ounce of it.
Turning, I head into the locker room to change. Well, to sulk, and then change.
I’ve never had to work so hard for one girl in my entire life. Chicks’ feelings aren’t even something I consider, but that’s not the case with her. I mean, here I am letting her hate me, all because my brother said I shouldn’t push. So, this is me trying to comply.
This is me not pushing.
Kind of.
I make it out onto the bleachers just as Mrs. C. blows her whistle and glances down at her tablet to take attendance. From the corner of my eye, I’m aware of the blonde ponytail I know to be attached to Southside, but I don’t turn her way.
Give her space, jerkwad.
Sighing helps relieve the tightness in my chest, but this whole thing is killing me inside.
“Today’s the official start of our basketball unit,” Mrs. C. announces. “You all did swimmingly during our pool unit.”
No one laughs at her lame-ass dad joke but some douche on the front row.
“Anywho. We’ll start with a simple layup tutorial for the first half of class, then we’ll move into small drills to practice what you’ve learned. I’ll need a couple volunteers,” she calls out.
Of course, no hands go up.
When her gaze lands on me, I groan, knowing my name’s about to be called.
“West? Can you join me, please?” she asks. “And … how about you, Trip. Get down here and grab a ball.”
I do as I’m told, dribbling while I await instructions.
“Trip, I need you on defense. Start at the free-throw line.”
We make our way there and Trip spreads his arms, studying my body language. Still, he somehow gets crossed up when I fake left, then break right. The ball rolls off my fingertips into the basket when I jump, and it isn’t until I look back and find Trip on the ground that I understand why the class is laughing.
“My bad,” I apologize, offering him my hand. He takes it and stands.
Eager to redeem himself, he plants his feet more firmly this time, and I dribble until Mrs. C.’s whistle signals the start of the play. Trip’s more focused than before, and a little tense. Trying to give him a break, I hit him with the same move, thinking it’ll be predictable, but dude goes down like the Titanic for a second time, and the ball rolls into the basket with ease.
This time, when I turn to help him up, I’m laughing with everyone else.
“Good thing you picked football over basketball. Otherwise, they’d have to hire someone just to scrape your ass off the court after every play,” I joke.
His face reddens, but he’s laughing a bit himself.
“Caught me off guard is all,” he insists. “I’ll block you this time.”
“Won’t be a next time,” Mrs. C. cuts in. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re being replaced.”
Smiling a bit, her hand lands on Trip’s shoulder as he passes her on his way back to the bleachers.