What would it feel like to be that person?
Would he tuck me against him when the panic attacks threatened to eat me alive with imaginary mice from my past? Would he rest his head on my chin and whisper that everything is going to be okay?
He’s your enemy, dumbass.
In his room, when he was touching me, we felt far from enemies.
We felt like lovers.
On a whim, I reach out to him on Instagram messages.
Me: What’s happening in two weeks besides my birthday?
It shows he’s seen the message right away, and then he’s typing.
Canyon: Me, kicking your ass at the 100-meter?
Me: Well, you just hinted, so…
Canyon: You okay?
My heart stutters at his question. I’m able to imagine his arms around me and his expensive cologne invading my senses.
He can’t be your boyfriend, idiot, because he’ll be your stepbrother.
A picture comes through of him standing shirtless in his kitchen, a bottle of Coke at his lips, and the most incendiary, suggestive, sexy smirk on his face. Then, he sends another message.
Canyon: I owe you one of these.
It’s then I forget all about mice and panic attacks and stepbrothers.
All I can think about is Canyon Voss, my dick, and the fact I’ll owe him a Coke too.
Canyon
The cool morning air is invigorating. With football, our games were always at night, and most practices were in the afternoon. The track meet, though, is early and on our home turf. Dew still coats the grass on the football field, and a small breeze keeps the late August morning from being suffocating.
I stretch while I wait for Alis to arrive. Somewhere over the course of the week, I’ve gone from hating him and wanting to ruin his life to looking forward to being in his presence.
As Naomi says, I’m a stalker.
I’m supposed to be terrorizing him. Ruining his life. Taunting him.
So why the hell would I rather pin him to my bed or the wall and have my filthy way with him instead?
The other teammates trickle onto the track, a sea of black shorts and jerseys with the Blood Gators logo in red and white on the fronts. Yesterday after practice, Coach passed out our uniforms. Somehow, he managed to get my same football number—09—which made me secretly happy. Alis’s number was 01, which doesn’t surprise me since he has to be the best at everything.
Today, I’m going to whip his ass on the track.
A smile tugs at my lips, just imagining how annoyed he’ll be to get beat. My body thrums with the need to compete. It’s in my blood to try to be the best, knocking everyone out of line along the way. Carrie’s the same when it comes to violin. But, where she can’t nudge over the perfect Alis Sommers, I will easily soar past him on the track.
Since it’s a home meet, the bleachers are mostly filled with black and red supporters, with only a few green and white from the opposing side. I learned this week from Coach Davies that the sport is pretty competitive where we live in Florida. Where most high schools across the nation have outdoor track seasons beginning in March, ours runs the entire school year. The tri-meets, quad meets, and invitationals will happen with everyone else in the spring; the fall season is more of a practice one for our area. With football lasting only a few months, I’m looking forward to being in an all-year sport my senior year of high school.
Someone whistles, and I jerk my attention to the entry gate. Alis struts in, body relaxed, with both our dads beside him. I’m filled with a mixture of unease, anger, and excitement at seeing them.
Dad’s eager grin nearly chases away my anger. It would be easy to slip into our old relationship—him being the supportive parent who encouraged me to do what I love. But then I think of Mom. How she’s not here, though she wants to be. Because she has to work.
Because. He. Left. Us.
“Looking good, bud,” Dad says, his blue eyes twinkling as he greets me. “It’s weird seeing you out here without your gear on, but I’m looking forward to watching you compete. Give Alis here a run for his money.” He playfully pulls Alis to him, messing up his hair.
The familiarity with which they act sours my stomach. It must be evident on my face because Dad’s smile falls, and Alis tugs out of his hold.
“Ready to lose, loser?” Alis asks, a taunting smirk on his face, effectively distracting me from all thoughts of Dad.
I try and fail not to look at his lips. Why are they so full and pink and pouty?
“We both know I’m going to beat you today,” I throw back with a smug grin. “You might want to get your number changed from 01 to 02.”