“How’s it going Rowdy?” She’s chewing gum and lets it snap.
He takes a few seconds to reply, whole demeanor changing. “Vanessa, right?”
She nods, pleased when Rowdy spares her a glance, flipping her platinum blonde locks to one side. Posturing.
“You inside with Levinson?” he asks the question slowly, deliberately.
Vanessa’s red-lipped, self-righteous smile falters. Fades like the ombre tips of her hair. “Yeah.”
I dig into my Chinese food with my fork, pretending not to listen—but if I were a GIF, I’d be the Michael Jackson eating popcorn in a movie theater one, so engrossed am I.
Rowdy shifts on our makeshift bench, his thigh pressing tighter alongside mine. It’s thick and warm and—right there. Touching me.
He covers my hand with his, stealing away my fork, eyes never leaving Vanessa’s face as he delivers his next line:
“Want me to tell his girlfriend you say hello? She’s out of town with the cheer team—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Stabs my fork into a shrimp, lifting it to his lips with a wolfish smirk.
Jesus.
Her dark lips part, throat chuffs. “You are such a dick.”
Vanessa grabs her friend by the arm, dragging her toward the steps, hightailing it down the stairs, lumbering on their perilously unsteady shoes.
Only when they’re finally out of sight do I speak.
“Wow.” I steal back my fork. “You really go for the jugular.”
He shrugs. Brushes his jacket against mine, the two fabrics scratching together. “The dude Vanessa is fooling around with has a fucking girlfriend. I can’t stand girls like that—she pisses me off.”
“He’s the one cheating.”
The glare he gives me is sharp. “Right, but she knows his girlfriend personally and just keeps on fucking him. That’s what pisses me off. No loyalty.” I jam a shrimp into my mouth, chewing as he continues venting. “I really fucking like Holly. I just wish she’d wise up and dump Levinson’s useless ass.”
“Why doesn’t she?”
He pauses, leveling me with a blank stare. “Seriously Scarlett? Why do you think?”
Why is he staring at me like that?
“What did I say?” I ask in a small voice.
“Levinson is going to the major leagues. Holly is never going to dump him—he’s her golden ticket to WAG status. Everyone knows it.”
I feel my mouth turn downward into a frown. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t know what a WAG is? God, you’re so naïvely sweet.” He pitches a thumb over his shoulder, toward the two girls who just walked off. “Why do you think that girl Vanessa is all over Levinson’s jock strap? He’s not even that fucking great. Gold digger. What do you think your friends keep coming back for, week after week? Gold diggers. Some of them are ‘lucky’ enough to get themselves knocked up—meal ticket for life in the form of child support payments.”
“Girls get pregnant on purpose?” I sound appalled because I genuinely am.
“Haven’t you ever heard the stories about girls poking holes into condoms?”
“Um…no.”
“Yeah, well.”
More food gets shoveled into his mouth from my container. He chews. I chew.
We both swallow.
Rowdy takes a swig of beer, washing it all down, while I take a chug of my water.
Then, “That’s the way it goes around here.”
“That’s really depressing.” I pause, trying to catch a glimpse of his profile. “Doesn’t it get old?”
“Real fast.” He stabs his fork into the rice. “Why do you think I moved out of this house?”
“You don’t live here?”
“Nope.”
“Why did I think you did?”
Rowdy stands, walking to the edge of the porch, peering off into the yard, though it’s hard to make out anything past the street.
He speaks with his back to me, hands braced on the bannister rail. “Communal living is fine when you’re a freshman or sophomore, but athletes on this row party a little too fucking hard. The random people hanging out at all fucking hours of the night are fun for one hot minute. The noise and…well, all the bullshit that comes along with living here? Not fun. Not anymore.”
He turns, raking his gaze over me, scanning me from head to toe—from the ankles of my brown boots to the long tips of my glossy hair, half hidden under my gray winter hat.
“What about you?” he wants to know.
“I don’t live here either.” It takes him a few moments to get my joke, but when he does, his head tips back and he laughs, his chiseled jaw and Adam’s apple absolute male perfection.
“You’re a real wise ass.” His smile is warm, and I catch him biting his bottom lip when he turns back toward the street.
Loud laughter is amplified when the door to the house flies open again, the music spilling into our perfect moment like toxic waste, along with a small group of co-eds.
The inebriated group stumbles to the stairs, hanging on to each other, raucous laughter, barely making it to the bottom without breaking their necks, barely making it to the sidewalk still standing.
I’m half expecting some of them to begin crawling.
Rowdy frowns under the dim porch lights, his eyes trailing their movements, watching them warily.
“This is the shit I’m talking about.” I can barely hear him.
“Don’t you guys get busted having parties all the time?” I ask his back.
“Sometimes.” His broad shoulders move up and down. “But mostly, no.”
“How? I mean, the music is so loud.”
“Who’s going to call the cops on us, Scarlett? The rugby house next door? The football players across the street?” He leans toward me, reaching with his long limbs, stretching until he reaches me, pilfering my bottle of water.
Chugs it.
I watch, riveted, as the corded muscles of his tan throat work the water down, only glancing away when he swallows. Crushes the plastic bottle between his two hands.
“The other teams party like this when it’s their off season, too.”
“Makes sense. Who wouldn’t? You guys work hard.”
My eyes hit the house across the street, its dim lights shining through the windows but otherwise, little activity.
“That house across the street you’re staring at?” he asks. “Ten football players live there.”
“Ten!” How can that possibly be? The place is tiny. I continue to study the pitch-black house. “Seems quiet to me.”
“’Cause half of them are inside this house, probably shitfaced. We’re going to have to physically take some of them home later. The other half are obeying their curfew.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What kind of player are you? A rule breaker, or do you—”
“Play by the rules?” Pause. “You’ll be surprised to learn, Scarlett”—I smile, relishing the sound of my name on his lips—“that as team captain, it’s my obligation to set a good example for the rest of my team, especially for the incoming freshmen and walk-on players.”
“Sounds noble.”
“It’s not all shits and gigs—the responsibility blows.”
I study him, trying to read his face, handing him a fresh bottle of water and cracking open one for myself. “Never have I ever broken a rule and lied about it.”
He studies me back, lifting the bottle to his mouth and taking a healthy gulp.
“Which one?” I want to know.
“I used to break curfew a lot when I was a freshman—a lot a lot—and a few times, I helped sneak girls into the hotel during away games. We call that road sex by the way.” There’s a long pause as he considers his numerous infractions. “Sometimes we go out drinking during the season when we’re not supposed to.”
“Not supposed to? I thought it was a free-for-all.”
The shaking of his head indicates the contrary. “We’re given one night a week to go out.”