Switch Hitter (Jock Hard 0.5)

Nervously, I push the hair behind my ears. “I-I’ll have to check my calendar.”

Dash regards me quietly, eyes smiling. “You do that.”

Before I know it, we’ve been here another hour, long after our food has been cleared away—so long I’ve completely forgotten myself and what I’m supposed to be doing here, ignoring all my sister’s texts—the ones blowing up my purse. It’s been vibrating for the past forty-five minutes.

Dante pays the bill.

Pulls out my chair and holds out my jacket so I can slide in. Guides me outside, hand at the small of my back, fingers gliding up and down my spine.

It’s dark when we arrive outside, awkward when we walk to my car. The click of my heeled black boots against the concrete the only sound in the entire parking lot.

“Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” When he comes at me, presumably for a goodnight hug or kiss or whatever, I put my hands out to stop him.

“Dante.” I take a deep breath, lean against the driver’s side of my car, and look up at him. “We should probably finish the discussion we started inside.”

“Which one?”

Oh Jesus. He’s going to make me say it. “The relationship one?”

“Okay.” His arms cross. “What about it?”

I’m definitely doing a crap job impersonating my sister. She wouldn’t be having a conversation with him in a half-empty parking lot; she’d be leaning into him and running her palms up and down his hard chest. Planting her lips on his, no doubt sticking her tongue down his throat. Sucking on his neck and—oh my God, what am I even saying?

“I don’t know if…” I clear my throat. Peel my eyes of the column of his neck.

“You saying you want to take it slow?”

“No.” I can barely shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

He waits me out, silently—which is the freaking worst. If he was acting like an asshole or being demanding or pushing me into talking, I would have no problem kicking him to the curb.

Unfortunately, he’s not doing any of those things. Dante is patient and willing to listen.

It’s horrible.

“Want to go downtown for a drink? This was fun.”

“It was,” I admit reluctantly, feeling guilty for enjoying my sister’s date.

Dash moves closer with purpose, and I propel myself backward until my ass hits my car door, sending me into a slight panic—he’s definitely going to try to kiss me.

The problem is, I want him to—want him to so bad my lips are tingling.

Everything on my body is humming.

“But I should probably go.”

I don’t have to go; I don’t want to go.

I should go.

Because he is not my date. He’s my sister’s, and I’m here to break up with him. I turn my back, unlocking the car to busy myself. Hand on the handle, ready to pull it open.

“You don’t have a few more seconds to say goodbye?”

And by say goodbye, I assume he means make out.

“Not really—I should have been home an hour ago, sorry. Homework is calling.”

“Darts then? Saturday? We can make asses of ourselves and you can show me how freakishly good you are.”

“I can’t.”

“What about another night?”

“That probably won’t work either.”

“What the hell is going on here, Lucy?”

“I can’t do this anymore…with you. I’m not…” I take a deep breath, blurting out, “I want to see other people.”

“Okayyy.” He takes a step back, jamming his large hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, brown eyes scanning my face, searching. “Not that it matters, but why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“Now?”

“You know, most people just do this shit over the phone. You could have saved yourself a lot of time by texting me.”

“It’s not my style.”

“Really,” he deadpans. “Breaking up with people over text isn’t Lucy Ryan’s style.” Dante snorts sarcastically. “¿Por qué me cuesta creerlo?” Why do I find that hard to believe?

All in all, this breakup is going great, considering…if you don’t factor in that I like the guy I’m breaking up with, he doesn’t know my true identity, and once he finds out I lied, he’s never going to want to speak to me again.

But at least he’s not shouting. Or acting hostile. Or being a jerk.

“I was really starting to actually fucking like you.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice is small.

“Trust me,” he scoffs. “I’ll get over it.”

It’s not mean or rude, but it stings.

Hurts.

Still, he doesn’t walk away as I climb into my car and buckle in. Doesn’t walk away as I back out of the space, shooting him one more longing glance through the rear view mirror, tears threatening to blur my vision.

He stands in the parking lot, in the same spot my car was just parked in, watching me drive away.

Watching Lucy drive away.

He likes her.

Me.

I like him.

And I hate myself for it.

***

Dash

When Lucy pulls out of the parking lot, I do something I haven’t done in ages.

Go on social media.

Log into Instagram.

Search: Lucy Ryan.

Scroll through her account. Scan the dumb pictures of her partying, hanging all over her friends. Frat parties. There are several of her at our house on Jock Row, another on what looks like a girls weekend. Starbucks cups. Photos of her nails. Other random stupid shit sin sustancia. No substance.

Then.

There, in living color, is a photo that has me seeing double. I do an actual double take, eyes practically bugging out of my fucking skull.

Holy. Shit. There are two of her—two of them.

Twins.

I fucking knew it. I knew something was off with her.

My fingers slide apart so the picture expands—the shot of them together, standing with their arms around each other’s waist, long, tan legs playing peekaboo beneath flirty dresses. Under a flower-wrapped archway, there’s no denying they’re both beautiful, the caption reading Aunt Victoria’s wedding #RyansTieTheKnot

The really fucked up part of this whole thing? I can tell exactly which one I’ve been spending time with lately, and it sure as hell wasn’t Lucy Ryan.

It was the girl on the right.

Under the dim lights of Zin’s parking lot, I study that picture, zooming in on that face. Her hair. Her eyes.

They’re identical, but it’s their expressions that give them away: Lucy’s trying to be confident and cocky while her sister is gorgeous and easygoing, letting her twin hog the camera.

I zoom again.

There’s that dimple I love so goddamn much—one of them has it, the other doesn’t. Lucy’s hair is lighter, layered around her face, and cut a few obvious inches shorter.

And their chests? I was right about the tits.

Her twin is beautiful. What was she doing pretending to be Lucy?

They’re nothing alike; any moron with a modicum of sense could have figured it out eventually—it only took me two dates with her to distinguish the differences.

Except I’m not fucking dating her anymore.

She dumped me.

Which is such bullshit, because after our last date together, I envisioned myself getting serious with a girl like her, doing all sorts of fun, outdoorsy shit together in the off season. Hiking and skiing and snowboarding, whatever she wanted to do.

I’d chase her anywhere.

We had a connection I’d bet money she felt, too. I would stake my ball career on it.

I’m a planner—always have been—so once the wheels get turning, there’s no stopping this train.

I close Instagram, immediately tapping my phone to make a phone call.

It only rings twice.

“Uh…hello?” The reluctance in her voice makes me want to laugh.

“Lucy?”

“Hey Dash. What’s up?”

I waste no time throwing down. “Why did you send your twin sister to break up with me?”