“What conspiracies could people be coming up with?” My eyes roll. Everything about all this drama is ludicrous.
“How she was only dating you to break up with you and give Penn State the edge over us, stupid fucking bullshit like that.”
A grinding sound fills my head as my molars rub together.
“What?” Trav asks at my Oh, shit! expression. That particular theory is about to get worse.
Now I’m starting to see why E could be worried about the press. No one really cares about an athlete’s family unless they themselves are famous, but something like this? Juicy tidbits that can fan the flames of rivalry? Fuck, I’ve lost count of the number of times Brantley has harped on using anything at your disposal to sell tickets and magazines.
“Back in high school, Kay dated Liam Parker.”
Trav’s blue eyes widen enough that I can see a full ring of white around them. Guess he wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.
“Well…this just got all Kardashians up in here.” He’s such a smartass, but I’ll take the injection of levity into the situation. “Okay, bro.” He pulls out his desk chair, sitting down and taking both a notebook and a pen from the drawer. “Sit your ass down and start from the beginning.” He points at his bed, the covers roughly tossed up to make it look made. “I’m going to need all the details of your dumping to help you fix it.”
“Should I start calling you Cupid1 instead of QB1?” I taunt while doing as he asked, retrieving my hat in the process.
“Hmm…” He scratches at his chin like he’s deep in thought. “Fuck yeah, I like it. Now give me the deets.”
I do. I tell him every accusation I made.
“You told me you don’t like having your full face show in pictures.”
“Outside of you wearing my hoodie and when we’re sitting next to each other in class or at lunch, you keep as much space between us as you do between you and our friends.”
Every insult I tossed out, all the ways I belittled Kay about her hang-ups with social media and what she went through in the past.
“I gave you an easy solution to shut the haters up. You wouldn’t have to do a thing except smile for the camera, and yet you refused.”
“Were you even bullied? Or is that just some lie you used to get me to stop pushing the issue of posting about us on my social media?”
I purge my guts to one of the few people in this world who won’t judge me.
“At one point, I slow-clapped her. I fucking slow-clapped.” I’m not just an idiot; I’m an asshole and a douche.
There may not be judgment, but there are eye rolls, a reaction I’m sure Trav picked up from Kay herself.
“You really are a fucking idiot, Mase.”
“I know.” I lift my hat off and replace it on my head, working the brim between my hands before releasing it to grip the back of my neck.
“Lucky for you, helping you serves a more selfish purpose for me, so yes, I accept the job as your Cupid1.”
I know better than to ask what those selfish reasons could be, but I do anyway.
“Because…as your best friend, I probably fall under the persona non grata category. The way Short Stack cooks and always feeds me is not something I want to give up.”
The absurdity of Trav’s statement manages to get the first genuine laugh out of me in days. This guy is forever thinking with his stomach.
“Real bro code mentality right there,” I quip.
“Whatever.” He pops a shoulder. “Not a risk I’m willing to take.”
I nod. No use arguing. Besides, we have more important things to discuss.
Time to come up with a plan to get my girl back before it’s too late.
#Chapter8
“PF, where you at?” JT’s voice echoes down the hall of my family home, and Herkie jumps down from the couch to greet my bestie instead of waiting.
I don’t bother answering. He’ll find us in less than a minute.
“Oh, good. Bette did your hair,” JT says when he spots me curled up in the corner of the sectional, recently straightened hair hanging around my shoulders.
I didn’t have it in me to stop Bette from fussing over me earlier and letting her style my hair was a painless thing to allow. Plus, having someone else wash your hair for you is one of the best things ever.
I may feel like crap on a stick, but yes, my hair is on point. The real question is why JT cares.
“If this is your subtle attempt at getting Bette to do your own hair, you know you don’t have to bother.”
“Ooo, good plan.” JT makes double bouncing finger guns at Bette. “You can hook this up”—he points to his head—“while this one”—he thrusts his arm out to me—“goes to get ready.”
“Ready?” I shake my head, my hair fanning out at the aggressiveness of it. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, but you are.” He takes my hand and pulls me from the divot I’ve worn into the couch with my ass. “We’re going to King’s, and you don’t get to have an opinion on the matter.”
That explains the dark jeans, stylishly ripped white tee, and Vans.
“I’m not really in the mood to go to a Royal Ball.” All my effort goes into pushing back against the hands curled around my shoulders, trying to prevent them from guiding me up the stairs.
“Too bad, so sad for you, PF.” I don’t need to look back to know he’s sporting a shit-eating grin. “Now go get changed, and keep in mind it’s a race night.” He doesn’t stop until we come to my bedroom door. “And make sure you do something”—he spins me around and circles a finger an inch from my face—“about this mess.”
Guess the coddling portion of the breakup period is over. JT is a tough love specialist if the situation warrants it. Besides,
