All the Sweet Move (All The Right Moves 1)

“Bullshit, dude. You spaced out.”

“That’s because nothing you say interests me. In fact, I’m done here.” I grab the edge of my tray before collecting my backpack and rising from my seat at the same time Molly stands at her table across the room.

I stand unmoving and watch her instead of walking away.

She’s facing me, and our eyes connect. Finally, Molly gives me a small self-conscious wave, and if the Three Assholes of the Apocalypse weren’t sitting in front of me, I’d probably wave back. Her long hair is in a braid that’s cascading over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a cute pink dress.

Man, she’s pretty.

My lips curl slightly into a small smile.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Weston? Molly Wakefield?” Rick picks up his tray and then instantly slams it back onto the table in a rage, sending a few fries scattering across its surface. “You asshole.”

His pronouncement doesn’t surprise me, and quite honestly, I don’t give a crap if he’s upset. You’re probably wondering if there’s such a thing as “guy code”. The answer is yes, but in my opinion, it doesn’t apply in this case. Why? Well, for starters:

1. Rick is my teammate, but he is not my friend. He’s thrown me under the bus so many times I’ve lost count.

2. He once tried to sleep with my cousin, Tracy.

3. Lastly—oh, that’s right. I don’t give a shit about his feelings.

I blow out a puff of air so I don’t lose my temper, but I can already feel my nostrils flaring, a telltale sign that I’m about to. As calmly as I can, I set my backpack and tray down, rest my palms against the edge of the table, and lean over so that my face is inches from Rick’s. The brim of my hat almost touches his forehead.

I am aware of hundreds of watchful eyes boring into me.

“Is there a problem?” This voice does not sound like my own; this voice is low and menacing.

“Yeah, you’re my goddamn problem.” Rick’s eyes dart over to where the lunch attendant is standing, and he stays embedded in his seat, but he’s clearly itching for a fight.

“Why is that?” I probe.

“You know I asked her out,” he says through gritted teeth, drawing his sentence out slowly. “You were standing right there.”

I frown at him through narrowed eyes, leaning closer. “And what was her answer?”

Rick shrugs coolly, but his demeanor is anything but. “She’ll come around.”

I laugh right then, and I have to admit, even to my own ears it sounds slightly maniacal.

“Yeah? Well you scare the shit out of her.” I quietly snarl, suddenly realizing it as the awful truth. That day in the hallway when Rick was harassing Molly for a date, I should have shoved his punk ass up against my locker. She looked so scared. Shit, the more I remember it, the more pissed off I become. “Do yourself a favor, Rick,” I spit out sarcastically. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t talk about her. Hell, don’t even look at her. Because if you do, I will find out, and then I will beat the shit out of you.” My triceps flex and my shoulders are drawn taut. “Do we have an understanding?”

Faintly, I hear Erik Gunderson in the background say, “Dayyuumm.”

I stay rooted to the spot, waiting on his answer. We’re both breathing heavily, and I know from past experience what Rick looks like when he wants to punch someone in the face. It’s the same look he’s giving me now.

“Why do you even care?” he finally asks with a snort. “If you’re trying to get in her pants, you’re wasting your time. That chick ain’t givin’ it up for nobody.” He looks around for support, trying to make our friends laugh but failing miserably.

“I’m sorry, but it seems like you’re not hearing me. Stay. Away. From. Molly.”

Finally, he gives a barely imperceptible nod.

I collect my stuff and strut away, conceited ass that I am.

“Mom, I have to talk to you about something,” I mumble gruffly as I pull out the barstool at the kitchen counter. My mom is standing at the stove with her back to me, stirring what smells like vegetable stir-fry. She taps the wooden spoon on the pan and turns to face me, laying the spoon down. Wiping her hands on a towel, she comes over and leans her elbows on the counter.

“This sounds serious. Is everything okay?”

Let’s see, how do I put this…

“Oh man. I don’t even know how to say this.” I run my fingers through my shaggy hair as my mom leans over and grabs my forearm.

“Sweetheart, now you’re scaring me. What is it? Tell Mom.”

“I don’t want you to be pissed at me.”

“Weston Richard McGrath, you tell me right now what is wrong or you’re going to be in a shit storm of trouble, young man.”