I hear a sheet of paper rip, then another before I’m stopped at the door.
“You’ll need this, Ms. Riley,” Headmaster Harrison says, holding out two pink passes. One for me. One for West. “I gave you both a ten-minute grace period to change and get to practice. No lingering in the hallways. Understood?” His voice is nowhere near as authoritative as the statement.
I’m certain that leniency is more so meant for West than me.
“Understood,” we answer in unison, and then we both hightail it out of there.
We’re taking the same hallway, so it’s a super awkward walk. Mostly because I’m always aware of him, like he’s always aware of me—two opposite sides of a magnet, drawn to each other because we’re so vastly different.
Or … at least I used to think that.
Now, I’m certain we’re both just fucked up.
“I’m not sorry I hit you,” I say in the bitchiest tone I can muster.
I shoot him a look and he chuckles quietly. “Never said you should be.”
It grates my nerves that he’s being all calm about this.
“And I’m not thanking you for whatever voodoo that was you just worked on Harrison back there. You owe me at least that.”
This time, the asshole full-on laughs. “I’m just walking, Southside. You’re the one talking. Not me.”
“As long as you know,” I snap.
When our paths should fork, and he continues to follow me, I’m instantly annoyed, because I’ve been forced into enough conversations with him that I’m certain this is what he’s hoping to do again. But then, as we get close to the girl’s locker room, I’m shocked to hear his steps slow while I hold pace. It isn’t until I reach the door that I glance back over my shoulder, only to see he’s stopped in his tracks, wearing the most annoyingly hot half-smile I’ve ever seen in my life. And, of course, he’s trying to be all mysterious and shit, so he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, watching with both hands tucked inside the pockets of his jeans.
The only thing worse than a certified dickhead is a hot certified dickhead.
My brow twitches when, a second after I meet his stare, he turns without speaking and heads toward the fieldhouse. Like he should’ve done in the first place.
He’s been so hard to read, I’m left wondering… did he just walk me to practice? Like, I’m his girl or something?
I look him up and down as he strolls away, his solid biceps stretching the sleeves of a fitted white tee. The muscles in his back roll beneath the fabric, too, taunting me when I remember what he feels like in my hands.
Obviously, and unfortunately for me, the attraction’s still alive and well. This becomes set in stone when he glances back and my chest rises with a deep breath. Those wild green eyes and that dark, disheveled hair acting as my kryptonite. I know his scent, and now even his touch. He’d once had me fooled into thinking I’d seen a glimpse of a heart, but that was a mistake.
A lie.
One that cost me dearly.
It’s this reminder of who I’m really dealing with that makes it easy to walk away from him now, without questioning why he seems hellbent on having me think he’s changed.
Without questioning why he’s being so human.
So… not West.
I let him inside my head once and it crushed me. I will not let that happen again.
Ever.
Chapter 11
WEST
“Such a stalker!”
“Are you, legit, a psychopath?”
“I swear, you’re a complete asshole.”
These are highlights from the list of insults Southside’s hurled at me this week, when that one walk to her practice turned into a habit.
The next day, I started showing up outside whatever class she was in when the bell rang, waiting to walk her to the next. She thinks I’m insane, and maybe I am, but Dane said to start small. And for me, I guess being a ‘psychopath stalker asshole’ is what starting small looks like.
Not sure how chivalrous it is to walk a girl to her classes when she so clearly doesn’t want that, but it’s the closest I can get, considering she won’t allow me to do more.
For three days straight, I’ve shown up, waited for her to gather her things, then I walk her wherever she has to go. My attendance is officially shot to shit, but I’d say it’s worth it.
People are starting to notice. Not only that I’m clearly trying to make a statement by not giving up, but that Southside doesn’t seem to be caving. Not even a little.
Dane, Sterling, and Joss have appointed themselves as some sort of relationship council, advising me on what to do next, and they all support the decision not to give up. Joss thinks it’s romantic, the guys think it’ll show commitment. I’m not sure about any of that shit, but I know I feel compelled to keep showing up.
Something I’ve come to know about Southside is that people have bailed on her. A lot. Despite having fucked up so bad, I need her to know I’m capable of sticking around, being consistent. I need her to know I’m capable of sensing what another human needs and becoming that. Even if it goes against who I am. For her.
Pandora’s firing off updates left and right as images flood her inbox, but no one’s completely sure what to make of my behavior.
Are me and Southside still a thing?
Am I still in the doghouse?
Am I obsessed and refusing to let her go?
My pride’s taking a beating, but I’m committed to this. Plus, nothing I’m feeling compares to what she’s felt this past week. Takes a real badass to go through what she’s been through and keep showing up. If I’m being honest, watching her keep her head held high makes me admire the hell out of her, and it makes sticking with my new—and somewhat humiliating—routine a little easier.
“Anything? Has she spoken to you yet?” Joss asks, popping a chip into her mouth.
We’ve started sitting at a small, round table so the rest of the crew can’t crowd us, listening to what have become daily strategy consultations. I peer up at Southside on the other side of the cafeteria with the question, watching her and Rodriguez.
Shaking my head, I feel frustration with having made zero progress.
“Not a word,” I confess. “She’s either cursing under her breath about me crowding her, or pretending I’m not there.”
“Well, I say keep going. She has to see you’re trying. Has to see you’re making an ass of yourself for her,” Joss adds, before whispering, “Whoops. Didn’t mean to say that part out loud.”
My jaw tenses and, for a split second, I consider my reputation. Consider the guy people expect me to be, the standard they expect me to uphold. But then I remember where all that got me.
“Whatever you do, just… don’t let some other bastard slip in under your nose,” Dane warns, sounding bitter as hell as he stabs a meatball with his fork.
I hold in a laugh, knowing he’s not talking about my situation anymore. Joss seems none-the-wiser that he’s butt-hurt about there still being no explanation as to why her new friend in Cuba is suddenly marking his territory.
“I say stay the course and play the long game,” Sterling adds. “She’s got good reason to be pissed. Let her be. Then, once she’s tired of being angry, she’ll see the effort you’re putting in and maybe that’s when you’ll get to say what you gotta say.”