“Breathe, Spencer,” he says, and I do. At first, it doesn’t do jack shit. But then my pulse settles and the anger fog gives way to understanding.
Because Morris is right. He’s always fucking right. I’m sabotaging my own chances. Fucking myself over. Last semester, I’d almost let Meegan come between me and Hart, and I care about his friendship far more than I give a fuck about her. I can’t let her sink her claws into my future.
“Sorry,” I say, voice gruff. I know I fucked up, that I need to grovel. I don’t tell him, but I’ll try to reign in the booze. Which should make the anger easier to control. For the breathing and the counting and all the other tricks he’s taught me to do their thing.
He lessens his hold on my shoulder, and we watch Gray flirt with nerd girl. She presses closer to him, tits straining against her tight top.
Morris takes another deep breath, which tells me he’s been processing my half-assed apology, releasing irritation of his own. He’s much better at it than I am. When he opens his mouth, I think he’s about to make a joke about Rowe, but instead, he says, “The Sergeant wants me to meet with a scout.”
I straighten. “I thought you told him you’re not applying for the draft this year.”
His eyebrows raise, gaze on something in the distance. I don’t have to follow it to know his eye is on our designated Kellermann’s table, where the rest of our friends sit. In particular, a blue-haired friend. “Doesn’t matter. I told him I’d do it if he met with you and Hart, too. So now he’s arranging a visit.”
“The Sergeant?” I ask him. “Or the scout?”
“Both,” he grimaces. “So get your act together.”
He doesn’t need to say more. A spike of tension jumps in me. A scout. Someone with a direct line to the NFL. Someone with a say in who does and does not make it to the next stage of their football career. Someone who, unlike Meegan and her claws, will hold my future in their hands. If I make a good impression.
I am not known for those.
“Fuck,” I say. Despite my personal resignation to control myself, I need a fucking beer.
Morris nods, turning back to Rowe. Then, switching gears, he smiles and taps my chest, gesturing for me to look, too.
Gray’s hand is on nerd girl’s waist now. She leans into him.
“Wanna bet,” Morris grins. “Someone goes home alone tonight?”
I snort. Too easy.
Because we both know he’ll blow it. Sure enough, Rowe whispers something in her ear. Her flirty smile drops. Confusion takes over. She steps back from him. Excuses herself. And Gray stands there, a bewildered look on his face.
Morris and I don’t bother containing our grins as he walks over to us.
“What was the fact?” Morris asks.
Rowe glares behind his glasses, tossing pool balls back on the table. “A male soapberry bug will stay connected to his mate until she’s ready to lay eggs, in order to ensure another male does not copulate with her.”
Morris almost spits out the sip of water he’d been taking.
“Okay,” he slaps Gray’s shoulder. “Next time, don’t bring up bugs? Or eggs.”
“Or say ‘copulate’,” I add. Sounds like something a mutual classmate of ours might say. One with auburn hair and a cutting cold stare.
“Then what’s there to even talk about?” Rowe frowns.
I can’t hold it anymore. I outright laugh in his face.
Leaving them to start a new game, I head to the bar, where I order another drink. I’ve nursed a steady buzz since Gray and I got here, so I’m nowhere near the point I was at Howell’s house party. I resolve this will be my last for the night, so I ask for a beer in the largest stein they have. Might as well go out with a bang.
Waiting, I scan the bar. Debate what to do next. Play more pool while Morris deliberately measures every sip of beer I take? Chill at our table, where Natalie sits with Hart and his girl—subjected to the former’s drunken whining or the latter’s drunken making out? Neither sounds appealing. Or how about that girl sitting at a booth with friends, the one who keeps slanting her eyes this way?
I sweep another gaze around Kellermann’s, not wanting to exhaust my options before heading over to her booth.
A flash of red from the corner of my eye, and I’m drawn to another booth. With two people. Some stiff-postured jackass wearing a corduroy-patched blazer. And Kennedy Fucking Walsh.
The bartender slides me my beer. I tell him to ring out my tab, then lean against the counter. Tilt my head. Study with nonchalant curiosity at the type of loser the ice princess has chosen as her next prince. He waves his hands too much when he talks. Which he also does a lot of. Flapping his trap while Kennedy sits there and nods, opening her own lips to speak, only the idiot won’t shut up to let her get words in edgewise.
I know how much she likes to get in the last word. This must be torture for her. Good, I think with just contempt. Let the guy talk her ear off.
Meanwhile… I look my fill.
Because if I hadn’t already been tuned into this being a date—from the fact there’s only the two of them or that Stone said her roommate’s dating again—the way princess is dressed tonight, there’s no doubt. She wears a clinging skirt and brown boots that run over her knees. One hand plays with the top button of the sweater stretching over her breasts. Her hair, normally in that tantalizing ponytail, lays around her shoulders, long and silky.
But it’s her lips I can’t take my eyes off of. Plump and pink. Not as red as they were in The Six-Pack bathroom, but enticing all the same. With the rest of her subdued makeup and pale skin, that warm shade calls my gaze, over and
