Slade races after him and goes for the ball but not before Roman shoots and watches as it sails effortlessly through the hoop. It’s been like this the whole game. It’s as though no one else exists on the court, only the two of them. It’s ridiculous really and from the way Blake is holding his shoulders in frustration, it’s clear that I’m not the only one who’s noticed it.
Slade gets the ball once again and passes it to Damian as he comes shooting through. Their teamwork is incredible and it’s clear that they’ve been doing this together for a while. They’re some sort of dream team but from the look of it, Damian doesn’t take it half as seriously as Slade does.
The game goes on and I start to doubt myself until we get halfway through the second quarter when droplets of sweat begin to coat all of the boys’ skin, though unlike Slade, the others haven’t had their uniform tampered with.
As sweat begins to run down his arms and legs, blue lines of ink start staining his skin. The first appears down the back of his leg and is quickly joined by another. I point it out to Maze. “Check it out. It’s working.”
She narrows her eyes at Slade as if that could help her see. “Holy shit. Is that blue lines all over his body? How the fuck did you do that?”
I grin wide, not tearing my eyes off him as he continues playing ball, completely oblivious to the way he’s quickly turning blue.
“I pressed calligraphy powder into his jersey and shorts so as he sweats and the powder mixes, it turns to ink.”
“Fuck me,” she booms with laughter. “Do you have a death wish?”
“More like a point to prove.”
The grin doesn’t move from Maze’s face as she watches eagerly and over the next few minutes, the show only gets better.
Slade dunks the ball into the hoop like a pro and I’m not surprised when Damian races up to him and throws his arms around his friend. He claps his back with a proud smile on his face which only results in mine and Maze’s grins widening impossibly further, especially as Damian pulls away with the backs of his arms covered in blue ink.
Slade walks back toward the center of the court and raises his jersey to wipe the sweat from his face. His torso is completely blue and after dropping his jersey back into place, so is his face.
Murmured gasps begin sounding around the stands as Maze and I howl with laughter. The guys on the Rangers begin snickering between themselves as people start pointing Slade out.
He holds his hand out for the ball and in doing so, finally notices the blue tinge on his hand. He follows the ink up his arm and soon enough is looking over his whole body in confusion. Even from way back here, I still hear the murmured “what the fuck?” rumbling from deep within him.
His head snaps up with his eyes zoning in on me. I’ve never seen rage like it and damn it, it’s fucking hot. “Oh fuck, girl. You’re dead,” Maze laughs as Slade takes a step toward the bleachers.
“CRUZ,” his coach bellows.
Slade doesn’t dare take his eyes from me and knowing now’s not the time to hang around, I stand proudly and let him know what a smug Skylah looks like because it’s something he’s going to have to get used to.
“NOW, SLADE.”
I curtsey and bow my head as though I stepped right out of the pages of a Jane Austin novel and watch with delight as Damian grabs hold of Slade and pulls him away.
He glares back over his shoulder and with one last smile, I scram, knowing that Slade Cruz has finally learned a lesson. Nobody fucks with Skylah Daniels and gets away with it.
Checkmate, motherfucker.
As I walk out the door, I feel someone’s heated gaze on my back and quickly realizing that it doesn’t belong to Slade, I take one last risk for the day. I look back over my shoulder to find the heated gaze belonging to Roman Westbrock and it’s clear from the laughter in his eyes that he has just witnessed all that bullshit with Slade, and damn it, he looks pretty fucking impressed.
Not being one to pass up an opportunity, I find one of the posters on the wall, advertising tonight’s game, and I fold up the corner. I write my new number on it, pleased that I took the time to memorize it and when I glance back at Roman, I find a blinding smile that blows me the fuck away.
Chapter 8
The sound of a heavy booted foot is all the warning I get before my arms are gripped tightly and I’m plucked like a doll from between my sheets. My hand tightens on the knife and as I’m thrown up against my bedroom wall in the dead of night, my hand shoots up to my attacker’s neck as the blade flings out and proud, ready to defend at all costs.