These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

And when it comes, I step forward on trembling legs.

Looking into those electric blue eyes, I tell him, “Bronwyn.” I swallow. “My name is Bronwyn Littleton. But you could call me Wyn.”

I repeat the words I said to him that night.

And so I wait for it.

I wait for it to happen.

Even though it’s killing me and I can barely contain my breaths, I wait for him to recognize me.

“And.”

This is the first word he’s spoken ever since practice started, and somehow at the sound of it, the air becomes silent. I can feel every girl on this field inching closer and hanging on to it.

His very first word.

Spoken in his deep, deep voice, the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.

The voice that I now know I have remembered correctly.

“And?” I ask with my heart in my mouth.

His eyes flash at my question, making them look sparkly. “And are you going to tell us?”

“Tell you what?” I ask confused.

His flashing eyes narrow slightly. “What position. Do you play. On the team,” he explains slowly, very slowly, before inquiring, “Is that clear enough for you?”

Oh.

Oh. Okay.

Right. I completely forgot that I was supposed to answer that as well. Like all the other girls.

But then… shouldn’t we be talking about the other thing?

The thing where I know him and he knows me.

Isn’t that more important and surprising and crazily coincidental than soccer?

I smile uncertainly. “Are you… Are you asking me what position I play on the team?”

My question makes him shift on his feet. It also makes that temporary narrowing of his eyes permanent as he stares at me for a beat or two in silence.

Then, “You understand English, don’t you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t —”

“Do you understand English?” he cuts me off, his deep voice going deeper, more authoritative. “Yes or no.”

I’m so fucking confused right now but his tone can’t be denied, so I reply, “Of course I do.”

“And you understand what’s been asked of you.”

“Yes.”

He throws a short nod. “So then why don’t you answer the question and stop wasting everyone’s time?”

I study his face then.

Not that I wasn’t doing it already, but this time I see it in a different light. In a light where I don’t focus on the fact that I’ve seen that face before but on the fact that his brows are bunched and his mouth is tight. That his eyes have something in them akin to irritation.

I focus on the fact that nothing on his face or in his body language, which is still as authoritative as ever, suggests that he knows me.

There is no indication, not even a teeny tiny bit of it, that he’s seen me somewhere. Or that he even vaguely remembers me.

My eyes go wide then.

My mouth pops open as well and before I can stop myself, I breathe out, “You don’t know who I am.”

As soon as I say it, I flinch.

I know it was the wrong thing to say. Very wrong. I realize it when his arms unfold and come down to his sides. When that silver watch glares at me from where his fingers are fisted and when he dips his chin toward me as if now I have his full attention.

Now I have his full focus.

“And who are you, Bronwyn Littleton?”

My own hands fist at my sides when he says my name.

Bronwyn.

Because it sounds exactly the same as it did that night. Beautiful and delicate. Unique. Instead of how it always sounds when people from my town say it: uncouth, disappointing, a mouthful.

And yet he doesn’t remember that he’s said it before.

I need time to process that.

I need to absorb the blow, the wound that he’s dealt me just now. So the logical course of action is to get my shit together and answer his original question before falling back into line and licking the bruises he gave me.

Only I don’t.

I stand my ground, my hands still fisted as I reply, “Well if you must know, I’m an artist.”

I don’t flinch this time.

Even though his eyes have narrowed some more and my unexpected words have shocked everyone else on the field. This is the very first time that they have heard this tone from me, I think.

This sort of bored and rebellious tone.

I’m one of the good girls at St. Mary’s.

I never behave badly.

So this is new.

“You’re an artist,” he repeats in a tone that I’m sure is sending chills down everyone’s spine.

Not mine though for some reason.

For some reason, his tone is only making me bolder. Maybe because there’s still no sign of recognition in it.

“Yes. I love to draw. I live to draw, actually.” I raise my chin. “I always carry a sketchpad with me and a pen. I draw first thing in the morning, during breakfast. During lunch, during dinner. I draw up until they put the lights out at 9:30 every night. And then sometimes I draw under the moonlight.” Probably shouldn’t have said that but let’s go with it. “In fact, I’d be drawing right now if I wasn’t here.”