Dirty Curve

It’s fucking weird. Irritating.

Downright frustrating.

The girl always looks back, right? And who the hell is she to flip the rule book and the game I was playing with her?

And why the fuck are these douchebags staring in the same direction as me?

q

This is bullshit.

Twice.

I called Tutor Girl twice today.

Yeah, called, not texted. Who does that? No fucking body, that’s who, but when she didn’t respond or bother to open the four or five messages I sent her—I know, ‘cause there’s no check mark—what was I supposed to do?

I have work to do in anatomy and she needs to help me.

Who cares if it’s a page or two of weak ass vocabulary words. Why should I quiz myself when she can do it for me? It’s her job. She gets paid to help me, more than she does anyone else. So, I called the girl, once when I pulled up at the stadium, and again after my post game shower. She didn’t answer either time.

It’s fucked up.

I’m done with class for the day, and the team met early this morning for film, so I’ve got shit else to do today but homework.

A heavy sigh escapes as I push to my feet and hop off of the picnic table I’ve been sitting on top of for the last forty minutes, the table that happens to be right across from the tutoring center that a certain brown-eyed girl has yet to come in or out of.

Sure, the door says they closed at five, but it’s only seven and I can make out the shape of bodies through the window, none that could even begin to rival hers, but still. She could have been in the back or something.

She’ll call eventually. I think.

Probably not, since she never does what I expect her to do.

Maybe if I think she won’t, she will?

Fuck me, I’m confusing my own damn self.

Annoyed as shit, I head to the only place outside of the field that allows me an escape, the gym.

“Oh man, is that Tobias Cruz I see?!” my boy Noah shouts as I walk into the gym.

Chuckling, I make my way over to where he’s working hand weights and resistance bands.

Noah’s the starting quarterback here at Avix. He’s a fucking god and humble as shit. In the off-season we see each other in here a lot, but when one of us is in season, it’s hit or miss. I haven’t seen the man since before the holidays.

“How you been, bro? Fuck your way through the dance team yet?” I grin.

He shakes his head, an easy smile on his face. “Not quite, Cruz. Not quite.”

See, Noah ain’t like me, so I give him shit when I can.

He doesn’t sleep around or eat up attention, and he gets plenty. Honestly, I don’t think he’s comfortable with any of it, the attention and never-ending skirts who believe they’re entitled to your time since they’re willing to hand over their own.

I wasn’t either, at first, but once I realized any good I did would be spun negatively by the school papers, I went ahead and gave them something else to talk about, the only other thing they chose to print when it came to me.

The Playboy Pitcher living up to his name.

I’m sure Noah gets his, but I’d bet it’s with one chick, a girl who is in the same boat as him, someone focused on school and not interested in the frat boy lifestyle.

He’s a damn good guy.

I take the space beside him.

“You killin’ it out there, starving those scouts.” He grins.

“Hey, I’m trying to keep up with the season you had.” I whistle. “Damn, Noah. Your ass is gonna burn a fat hole in some rich fuckers’ pockets next year, my man. You’re going first round, no question.”

He looks away with a low chuckle but says nothing.

See? Humble as fuck.

Good dude, great student.

Bet Tutor Girl would like someone like him.

I freeze, halfway extended, to pick up a dumbbell.

What the fuck was that?

No, no.

I don’t give a damn who or what she does in her spare time, so long as my work is solid, and I get to play ball.

But! If she is ignoring my calls because she’s with some fuckface, that ain’t cool.

Son of a bitch, I sound like a bitch.

With a groan, I yank my bag off the ground and ignore Noah’s raised brow.

I storm right back out the way I entered, my phone already at my ear, ready to snitch her out like a damn toddler ‘cause yeah, I’ve apparently reached that level of ... I don’t know, spite? Annoyance.

Disappointment?

“Hey, kid,” he answers on the first ring.

I glare at the clearing campus. “Coach.”

“Yo, Cruz,” is shouted from my left right as Coach Reid asks, “What’s going on?”

I turn to find Neo and Gavin, nodding my chin.

“We’re picking up X and headed to Trivies. You in?” he calls, his hands cupped around his mouth.