“Does that work?” I ask.
“Does what work?”
“Did he get over her?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Natalie places her mug on the coffee table. Rylie has no more questions, and she has no more information. If I press for more, it’ll be obvious what I’m trying to get at. Or they’ll think I want to know more about Spencer than I do. So I keep my mouth shut as she picks up the wooden plank she’d been working on all night. “But first, tell me what a creative genius I am, because look. At. This.”
She flourishes her project for both me and Rylie to see. It’s a rainbow of glitter and swirling letters, combined to boldly spell out ‘Tipsy Turvy’.
Our new house name.
It took ages to come up with something suitable we all agreed upon. Natalie wanted something inspiring fun. Rylie requested a pun. I demanded nothing vulgar, shooting down many of their original ideas. The whimsical cleverness had called to each of us immediately, and Natalie had volunteered her bedazzling abilities to create the sign to hang above our front door.
Rylie and I clap, dispensing praise and adoration, which Natalie takes with another wiggle of her body.
She sets the sign down. “All that’s left to do is weather-proof it and have one of the guys hang it. Then, we party.”
“Party?” I ask warily.
“A housewarming party!” Rylie cheers.
Natalie high-fives her. This is something they’ve discussed without me. Probably because they know I’d be reluctant to the idea. Rightfully so. I can only imagine what these two have planned.
“You know what that means, Kennedy?” Natalie asks.
“No.”
“You have to stay all. Night. Long.”
9
Spencer
I line up my cue stick, stroke it, and pitch it in a flash to the striped ball—missing entirely when Morris steps up to the pool table.
Fuck. I glower at him. Three more balls, I would’ve won.
“Save it, your opponent isn’t even playing,” he says, resting his water bottle on the table. I don’t say anything about him putting it there. It’s a pool table in a college bar. It’s seen worse than a little condensation.
Kellermann’s, a German-themed hidden gem of a bar, is quieter than usual for a Saturday night. When it’s this cold out, students opt to stay indoors for house parties rather than walk through snow to hit the town.
I glance to the other side of the bar’s pool room, close to the hallway leading to the restrooms. Gray, my opponent, has abandoned me to chat with someone who has long hair, perky tits, and a tight shirt.
“It’s a better game this way,” I say to Morris as he collects balls from the pockets. Gray, though being physically uncoordinated at the best of times, excels at pool. He claims it’s all about choosing the right angles and geometry and bullshit, but really, he’s just a fucking shark.
“Who’s he talking to?”
I scratch my back, squinting at the two. Gray twists his pool cue in his hand, and the girl ducks her head to laugh at something he’s said. She wears glasses, like him. Another nerd. No wonder he walked away the moment she waved at him from across the room. “I think they’re in a class together?”
I don’t mention she looks familiar. Like a girl I’d hooked up with last year. Though I’m not entirely sure. My head had been preoccupied under her skirt. Maybe her hair had been shorter? Had that girl been wearing glasses?
Morris moves his water bottle and racks the balls. Picks a stick from the stand. Chalks the tip. Stands across the table from me.
I know what he’s doing.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” I tell him.
“Didn’t say anything.”
Not yet. Because at some point in the middle of our game, he’ll reprimand me for the fight at Howell’s. For letting Meegan get to me. Again.
Like I haven’t done that enough myself.
I break. Call solids and pocket two in rapid succession. Miss my next shot and take a drink from the beer I’ve set on a nearby stool as Morris takes his turn.
It’s quiet, calming. Hart has an annoying tendency to run his mouth. Gray mutters under his breath as he concentrates. But Morris and I have an understanding. Shut the fuck up and play.
Or, at least, shut up and play until Spencer’s head’s in the game and he’s thoroughly distracted, even though he should fucking know better than to let his guard down. Because right as I line up another winning shot, Morris casually says, “I thought we worked on breathing exercises.”
I miss. Fucker.
“Hard to focus on breathing when you lose at beer pong.”
“And I thought we were working on the drinking.”
I tilt my beer bottle, chugging the rest of it in a single swallow with a flat stare at him.
He grips his cue, tight knuckles the only sign I’ve gotten a rise out of him. Then he exhales deeply, likely doing breathing exercises of his own. Still, he takes his next shot with more force than necessary, the last of the striped balls cracking into each other, both falling into the pocket closest to me. The eight follows shortly after.
He drops the stick on the table, our game over. He’s won. I lean against the table, and next I know, he rounds it to stand beside me. He squeezes my shoulder. Not in a friendly way.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Spencer?”
I don’t answer.
“Do you think a single pro team is going to hear about you fighting and want you as their pick next year?” Morris asks. “Hell, do you think Coach now will want you playing anymore if you keep this shit up?”
It’s not the first time he’s said this shit to me. Yet, it cuts. Again and again, it cuts.
“You tackle a guy on another team during a game. That’s fine. You defend friends from douchebags like Keeland. That’s fine. But you don’t—you fucking don’t—suckerpunch someone because they had their tongue down your ex-girlfriend’s throat.”
I start, nostrils flaring, but Morris’s hand on my
