Blind Side(19)

But I simply cracked my neck and turned back around, finishing my lunch without another glance in her direction.

I wore a smug smile on my way out of that room and down the hall to the defense meeting. At least, until Holden caught up to me, pulling me to a stop.

“That was quite a show,” he commented.

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

Holden shook his head, eyes narrowing like he was onto me. “Look, I’m all for you moving on. God knows you’ve been a miserable prick since…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, probably because my glare had turned murderous daring him to.

“But… Giana is a sweet girl.”

I crossed my arms. “And what, I don’t deserve her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What exactly are you saying then?”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his chin before he looked back at me. “Just be careful, man. Okay? She’s not a rebound. She’s not the kind of girl you fool around with to make yourself feel better.”

There was something in the sincerity of his voice, in the way he looked at me with that request that rendered me without a smartass remark to combat it. I just nodded, and he did, too, before clapping me on the shoulder and heading the opposite way toward his own meeting.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Giana: Well, how’d I do?

I smirked, continuing my walk down the hall as I typed back.

Me: A triumphant performance, Kitten. A+

Giana: I almost passed out when I saw everyone staring at us.

Me: I would have caught you.

She sent back an eyeroll emoji, and then the little bubbles popped up that signaled she was typing more.

Giana: So, when’s my first lesson in seducing Shawn Stetson?

I couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled out of me.

Me: Eager much?

This time, it was a middle finger emoji that came through.

Me: Name the time and place.

Giana: Let’s just get through Chart Day and go from there. I think I’ve had enough… excitement for one day.

Me: So kissing me was exciting, huh? I thought I felt a little wetness on my abs after I set you down…

Giana: CLAY!

Another laugh barreled out of me, and I tucked my phone back in my pocket, ducking into the meeting room. It buzzed again as soon as I sat down, and I was still wearing my cocky smirk when I pulled it back out, expecting a string of cursing texts from Giana.

But it wasn’t Giana’s name on my screen.

It was Maliyah’s.

And the waiting text only said one thing.

Hi.





Giana



It was blissfully quiet in my bedroom two nights after Chart Day, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and crackling of my wood-wick candle the only sound. I was propped up against the headboard, fuzzy sock-covered feet folded underneath me as my latest addiction sat spread like a map in my lap.

One hand held my book open, the other kept a consistent stream of crunchy Cheetos flowing from the bowl beside me into my mouth. My eyes raced across the pages, heart picking up its pace as Nino wrapped his hand around Francesca’s throat and pinned her against the door to the room he was keeping her hostage in.

Having my own apartment had been absolutely crucial for me after the hellish experience of having a roommate my freshman year. I learned very quickly that growing up in a large family that mostly ignored me had made me value my personal space.

I could not say the same for my roommate.

Two semesters of her bounding in my room after midnight drunk as a skunk and either crying to me about a boy or squealing to me about a boy, and I’d had enough. Not to mention the amount of dishes that girl dirtied, or how she couldn’t be bothered to clear her hair out of a sink or shower no matter how many times I’d asked.

The final straw had been when she’d taken a stack of my books without asking — and not even to read them, but to use them as a door stopper while she brought in groceries.

Fury snaked down my spine even at the memory.

I’d saved and saved and begged Mom and Dad to help fill the gaps so I could get this place, a tiny studio apartment just a few blocks from the NBU campus. It was small, old, and smelled a little like mothballs — but I loved it. And since I much preferred to be alone than to be in any sort of forced friendship, I was happy here.

And tonight, I was indulging in a self-care night, one I desperately needed after fielding the media circus that had been keeping me busy all week. Things would slow down a bit now that Chart Day was behind us — at least, until the season opener this weekend — and I was celebrating the fact that I survived rounding up more than two-dozen football players for interviews, social media stunts, and fan appearances.

Not to mention the fact that I’d survived kissing Clay Johnson.

Just like it had a hundred times since that day, the memory of it had my pulse racing, and I let my book flop against my chest as I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table and gulped half of it down. After, I just sat there, staring at my bookcase at the foot of my bed as I replayed it.

I’d been kissed before. I had.

There was Ricky in the fifth grade, who threw a dodgeball over the playground fence and then asked the teacher if we could go retrieve it together. He pressed his lips against mine and held them there for three seconds — ones he counted on his fingers — before running off laughing.