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

I bite my lip at his irritation. “But it’s your team, right? I mean before you came here. You practiced with them.”

“So?”

“So maybe it all happened for the best. Callie told me it’s an important game this Friday. Maybe you can help them win,” I tell him with a slight smile. “You can remind them of all the stuff you taught them before. Maybe this is the best thing their new coach has done for them. Pulling his knee and stepping aside. So their old coach can help.”

He’s silent for a few moments, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

And the more they do that, the darker they get and I can’t help but part my lips.

Glancing at them for a moment, he lifts his gaze and says roughly, “You don’t quit, do you?”

Goosebumps rise all over my skin at his rough, tender tone. “Quit what?”

“Being so fucking sweet and rosy all the time.”

My chest expands then. Making my breaths all scattered and weird.

And I can’t help but ask, “W-what are you doing here?”

Why were you standing so close to her?

As soon as the thought flashes through my head, I get a bad feeling.

A very, very bad feeling.

A crushing feeling.

Maybe he came here to see her. Because he won’t get to. For the next week.

Maybe he…

“I didn’t,” he begins, pulling me from my dark thoughts, “I didn’t know she’d be here. When I came. And I’m not… We’re not…” He sighs then, stumbling and trailing off before he picks up the thread and states, “We’ve been practicing all day. Because that’s how bad they are and… I couldn’t pull myself out until this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

He pins me with his gaze for this next part, “Or I would’ve been here sooner to…”

“To do what?”

A beat passes as he shoves his hands down into his pockets. “To tell you.”

“Tell me?”

Another breath. “That I’m not going to be here this week.”

I study his face for a second, his eyes, trying to understand what he means. Then, finally it clicks and I breathe out, “You came here to see me.”

At my words, he takes a step closer to me. “It was unexpected. Their call. I didn’t have the time to tell anyone. You.”

I take a step closer to him as well even though I know it’s dangerous to do that.

I must look all love-struck and love-drenched as I stare up at him. But it’s so hard, so hard, to stay away from him when he’s just made me bloom.

Like he did Friday night when he came to my town, my house, to look for me.

“When can I…” I ask, swallowing. “When can we…”

Be together.

That possessive glint in his eyes shines bright, brighter than before. “Friday.” He pulls something out of his pocket, a pink permission slip, before giving it to me. “Here.”

I take it and see that it’s an overnight pass. For the entire weekend.

Snapping my eyes up, I frown. “But it’s not a visitation weekend.”

“It is,” he says, “if I want it to be.”

Right.

Of course, faculty members can give out visitation weekend passes outside of visitation weekends. Not that every student can get them. Only a handful like me with the highest of privileges.

“I didn’t like it,” he continues in a low, rough voice and I look up, suddenly all happy.

“What?”

“That I had to drive you back. After. Sneak you back into your house like some sort of a thief.”

I hug the pink slip to my chest. “Is that why you were so mad on the way back home?”

Because he was.

All angry and grumpy, answering my questions with a grunt or heavy silences.

“Fuck yeah,” he bites out. “This time I’m not letting you leave my bed. You’re going to stay there. With me. And when Monday comes I’ll drive you back to St. Mary’s after your fucking visitation weekend.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning. “Okay.”

He studies my face for a few moments, as if memorizing my features because he won’t get to see them for the next week. I do the same, feeling both sad and happy in this moment.

Before I feel a light tug and I look down to see the source of it.

It’s him. His fingers.

That are rubbing the tail of my braid.

I watch his large fingers move. Once. Twice.

And then one more time before he steps back and shoves his hands down into his pockets again. “I’ll pick you up Friday. At seven. Same spot as before.”

With that he turns around and leaves.

And I let my smile out.

Friday then.

It’s Friday.

But I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

I’m not waiting for him at the bend of the road at seven as he asked me to.

I’m actually waiting for him at Bardstown High. Or more like watching him, on the soccer field, from the stands. Along with hundreds of other people, because the game is on.