The Rivalry

His door thudded closed, and instantly the tension between Kayla and me was back. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Her voice wasn’t confident, though.

I didn’t know how to feel. I raked a hand through my hair, waiting for her to say or do something. But she didn’t.

“I wish you’d told them about me,” I said finally. It was the tip of the iceberg, but I was giving her an opening. I didn’t want to gang up on her after what had just happened.

“And I wish you’d let me do it the right way,” she shot back.

We’d been officially boyfriend and girlfriend for less than five minutes. Was this impasse going to make this the shortest relationship in history? I didn’t want that, but I wasn’t going to apologize. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

She blinked, and her tension faded, making her look exhausted. She took a hesitant step toward me. “You’re going to have to leave soon, I assume.”

I nodded.

“We haven’t gotten naked yet.” Her tone was cautious. “Is there any way we can we save the awkward discussion about my family for another time?”

“What, pretend it didn’t happen?” I said, dubious.

She shrugged slowly, almost sad. I didn’t like how nervous she looked. We had a lot of shit to talk about, but her parents’ disappointment was crushing her, and I knew all about that. I’d do anything to make her feel better.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a light tone. “You should know, I stopped listening after you said naked anyway.”

It was typical Kayla, using sex to avoid her confusing feelings about the rivalry, and fucking hell, I fell for it again.

I returned to the U-M campus at noon on Sunday. I’d been smart enough this time to schedule my appointment with the trainer for after lunch. It’d still be tight, though. I had a database project to work on, and I had to get a good grade. My academic advisors watched me closely, and if my grades slipped, the coaches would be on my ass like nothing else.

There’d been grumbling last year about my grades and reminders that if I was ruled academically ineligible to play, I wouldn’t just be letting myself down. I’d be a disappointment to the whole fucking team.

Like I needed more pressure.

Darius unknowingly added to it when he texted me a screencap from Facebook. Someone had posted a picture of me in the Buckeye Bar last night. At least they weren’t able to tag me in it. I’d quit social media two years ago when girls started using it to track me down.

I walked along the hall toward my room, thumbing out a message to Kayla that I’d made it. Was she still in bed where I’d left her? We hadn’t talked about her family this morning either. I tried to give her space and let her start the conversation, but she hadn’t by the time I’d had to leave, and frustration wore on me.

My key didn’t turn in the lock. Huh. I’d left my door open.

I flipped on the lights, and went rigid.

Hanging from the ceiling was a Brutus Buckeye mascot doll, with its stupid nut-shaped head, idiotic smile, and a noose tied around its neck. It barely held my attention, because my gaze moved on to take in the carnage.

My room was a disaster.

Books and the rest of my school shit were all over the place. The mattress had been pulled halfway off the bed frame and spilled out onto the floor. Clothes from my closet were everywhere. I couldn’t tell if whoever fucked with my room had pulled things off my wall, because a bedsheet had been haphazardly duct taped over it. One word was painted on the fabric in angry letters.

Traitor.

I stepped into my room, slammed the door shut, and ripped the sheet down.

-30-

KAYLA

Our next game was at Nebraska, and after we won, I sat in the hotel room I had volunteered as tribute to share with Lisa. No one else wanted to room with her, so as captain, I took that bullet. It worked out, kind of. She was still the only one on the squad who knew about Jay. After the disaster with my parents, I wasn’t too keen on sharing my boyfriend’s identity with anyone else.

Lisa flopped down on the bed overly dramatically. “Tell me your boyfriend lost today.”

I was still conflicted whenever Jay won. “No, sorry.”

She groaned. “Son of a bitch. Who’d they play?”

“Minnesota.”

“Was it at least close?”

I glanced at the screen of my phone. “Twenty-eight to three.”

“They need to lose a game.” She lifted on her bent elbows and glared at me. “What are you doing to make that happen?”

Just what was she implying? “Excuse me?”

“Can’t you, like, get him sick or something? Screw him into exhaustion?”

It was so ridiculous I almost laughed, but then I had a better idea. I tapped a few times on my phone and held it up. It rang.