Untouchable (Untouchables, 1)

I don’t care about football. I still hate all of this. But I want to be supportive, so here I sit.

The team must have scored or something, because the man beside me jumps up and hollers at the top of his lungs. I wince, covering my ears to protect them from the roar of the crowd. I look out at the field, then the score board, trying to figure out what happened. There’s still time on the clock, so the game must not be over. I think the score changed, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what it was before.

I really need to do some research and figure out at the very least how the game is divided up, and how scoring works. I think football is four quarters, but to be honest, I’m not entirely sure.

Pushing up off the metal bench, I ease my way out of the row and down the concrete steps. I need a break from the football aspect of this game, so I’ll go to the concession stand and get something to drink. Carter says we’re all going for food afterward, so I won’t get myself a snack, but I’m so bored, I’m tempted to get food just because eating would give me something to do.

Technically, I brought a book in my purse and I was hoping I could sneak a few chapters between plays. The stands are too noisy though, and every time I look at my purse and think about getting it out, I figure that will inevitably be the moment Carter looks up at me. Then he’ll think I spent the whole game reading and not even paying attention to his whole golden arm thing.

Not that I really understand what he’s doing when he throws. I don’t know a good pass from a shitty one. The only barometer I have is the noise level. When the crowd goes nuts, I figure something good happened. When they’re quiet, I guess not.

There are two people in line when I get to the concession stand, so I pull out my phone to text Grace while I wait. I was supposed to head over to the church early tomorrow morning and put the finishing touches on the baskets, but Grace decided to go tonight and get a head start. While I wait to hear how it’s going, I move forward in line.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

My shoulders drop with disappointment and I turn to face Jake Parsons. I assumed he would be on the bench, not in the crowd, so crossing paths with him hadn’t even crossed my mind.

He’s smiling at me, his amused gaze raking over my Longhorn gear. “Did Hell have to freeze over to get you here, or is Carter really that good and he’s already made his way between your legs?”

My face flames at the truth in that comment, but I narrow my eyes at him anyway. “Nice to see you, too, Jake.”

He steps into line behind me, even though he’s already holding a Longhorn water bottle. Judging from the smell of his breath when he gets close to me, it’s not water he poured into it. “Oh, it’s always nice to see you, Zo.”

I fight the instinct to take a step back, but he’s too close. Jake is taller than me—not as tall as Carter, but still taller than me—and like Carter, when he wants to make himself look more intimidating, he uses every inch of his height.

“Don’t be a jerk,” I tell him, my tone low. I really don’t want trouble with him, but I’m not unarmed anymore. I have more than my own voice to protect me—I have Carter, and I’m not afraid to wield him.

Jake’s arm comes to settle around my shoulders and I stiffen. “Am I bein’ a jerk?”

“Get your arm off my shoulder.”

“Is that sexual harassment now, too?”

“You know what, Jake?” I snap back. “Touching a girl who doesn’t want you to touch her anywhere is pathetic, no matter what you want to call it. It’s pitiful.”

His blue eyes harden, turning from oceans as warm as summertime to little chips of ice. “Only when it’s me though, right? I seem to remember Carter touching you an awful lot when you didn’t want him to, and you’re datin’ him now. All comes down to what you can get out of it, I guess.”

“Tell yourself what you need to, Jake,” I tell him, shrugging his arm off. “Carter also happens to be a hell of a lot more interesting than you, but yeah, obviously that couldn’t have anything to do with me liking him.”

“Interesting, my ass. It’s his money or his dick that has you singin’ a different tune, and I hate to think you’d sell out for the latter,” Jake tells me, smirking a little, eyeing up my tank top and shaking his head.