STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

Finally,Trishelle is the only one left and my heart soars. I cheer loudly for her, as do a few of the other people in the stands— now that she’s the clear winner, they’re all a lot more willing to appreciate her undeniable skill. I’m glowing with pride.

“Chick is good but unfortunately she’s built like a thirteen year old boy,” one of the guys behind me snorts.

Now I’m glowing with rage.

I stand up and spin around. “Seriously?” I say to the group of them in a sharp whisper. “Seriously, you’re shit talking a girl who looks like an Olympian because her tits aren’t big enough?”

The guys look stunned, like they didn’t realize anyone could hear them— or, more likely, didn’t realize anyone would dare speak up against them.

I’m so enraged I keep going. “For fuck’s sake, have you ever considered the possibility that she’s not trying out for your personal beauty pageant, but because she’s an athlete? Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe women don’t exist solely for your pathetic sexual needs?”

There’s a chance I’ve gone to level eleven pissed off at this point.

The guys are smiling and nudging one another, but it’s pretty damn clear they’re at least shocked, and maybe a little bit embarrassed. Except for one guy— the one at the end. He’s sitting with the other guys, and yet, he doesn’t seem to really be with them.

He’s not nudging or laughing or snorting with them, but rather, just staring at me. There’s something appraising about his eyes, something critical and intense, and somehow it unnerves me.

“What’s your name?” he asks. The guys around him fall silent, and it’s clear to me that he’s an authority figure in some way— they’re minions, and he’s the king.

“Anna Milhomme,” I say, although then I wonder why the hell I even told him. What right does he have to demand I identify myself to him and why did I think I should oblige his request?

“Pay no attention to my friends here, Anna Milhomme,” he says, and there’s nothing apologetic in his voice. There’s nothing at all in his voice. It’s calm, and cool, and low, and I can’t get a read on him.

“If they can keep their voices down and their comments civil, it will be a lot easier,” I say. But I don’t spin back around— I can’t spin back around, because his eyes are on mine and they’re holding me prisoner here.

“Why aren’t you trying out for the squad, Anna Milhomme?” he asks, blending my first and last name together so that I sound like someone with a single long, exotic type of name.

“Because I’m not a cheerleader.” I feel my cheeks reddening at the suggestion that I could be, though.

“Neither is your friend. She’s an Olympian or something.”

I fold my arms, annoyed— but in some ways, this is easier. I know how to be annoyed. I don’t know how to be frozen by a guy staring at me. “I have no transferrable skills when it comes to cheerleading.”

“Except being as hot as any girl down there,” he says.

I blink, because he’s said it in such a calm tone that I’m not totally sure it’s a compliment. Wait, no, it isn’t really a compliment at all— because he’s implying being attractive is a skill, and it’s not, it’s learned, and it’s stupid, and…

I like knowing he thinks I’m hot. And I don’t want to be pleased, but I am.

Or maybe the guy is fucking with me, toying with me, because he can see that he is in a different league from me. Thus, he knows intuitively that I am probably going to melt at the mere suggestion that he is interested.

And I am melting a little, despite myself.

Perhaps it’s because he’s so undeniably good looking, with muscles that I want to run my fingers over and gray-blue eyes. I steady my breath, not wanting him to see how he’s flustered me with his words and his looks and that hard stare.

Someone behind me applauds, and I jump at the sound. I turn to see that tryouts are ending— numbers are being called, and the applause was one of the stage-dads celebrating his daughter’s acceptance onto the squad. Trishelle is sitting cross-legged on the floor with all the other new girls, and I see they’re all clutching hands with heads bowed in (I suppose) prayer. She’s number twenty-seven, and I hold my breath, almost forgetting about the guy behind me, even though I’m pretty sure I can feel his eyes boring into my back.

Five girls are called, six, seven, eight. There are only about ten spots. I press my lips together, come on, Trishelle, come on, come on, come on—

“Number twenty-seven!” the veteran cheerleader calls out. Trishelle stands and very calmly walks to join the other girls who have made it— but I know she’s exploding inside, just like I am. I jump up and down, pumping my fist in the air for her, and she flashes me a quick grin before hugging the other lucky new members. The knot of worry in my heart is unwound, and I turn back to face the football players.