Filthy Foreign Exchange(22)

“Apology accepted,” he grants easily, just as one of the girls behind us leans down to whisper in his ear.

I look away quickly, giving them as much privacy as possible at a football game, but I can’t help noticing him remove her hands from his shoulders.

“We’ll see,” he tells her. It spikes my curiosity so much that I peek, catching her giant smile as she whispers a not-hushed-enough promise of a fun night.

When she sits back, I hold up four fingers, my gaze returned to the field but the digits directed right at him.

“Is that a new way of giving the bird in the States?” he asks. “How did I earn four?”

I cock my head toward him. “No, that’s where your little friend falls on the worth-your-time scale.” I lower my hand, but not my smile.

He appears to think it over for a moment before his face brightens with realization. “Not as much as the previous girl in the school lot then, I see.”

“Nope.”

“And should I assume this ranking is on a scale from one to ten—the latter of which I’m sure you’ll reserve for only one special girl?”

“More like a number you won’t find in these bleachers, so don’t bother looking.”

“I’m only looking at you.” His voice is clear, smooth, and undeniably lower. “And you’re wrong about the bleachers. A bit shortsighted, Love.”

Nothing could stop me from latching onto his gaze; an undefeatable pull. But the moment I do, he robs me by directing his attention to the game.

“So, why are you here, Echo?” he asks casually. “You hate the school crowd, which would lead one to believe this is a small taste of hell for you.”

I explain about Savannah, and he laughs—with me, not at my expense.

“What about you?” I counter. “Why are you here?”

“Some of the blokes from uni persuaded me.” He motions with his head to the group of guys seated around his coed entourage behind us.

“You do know this is the high-school team playing, right? I’d have guessed you guys could find something better to do, what with your being in college and the town’s hottest ticket and all.”

“I believe we’re going to a club after the game?” Is he asking or telling me? “Savannah’s joining us, if I heard correctly. Why don’t you come, as well?”

“Of course she is.” I shake my head. “She’s eighteen now—gotta run to the clubs first chance she gets. And not that I’d go if I could, but I’m only seventeen.”

“Are you?” He seems surprised.

“Last time I checked, yeah.” I mimic his wide-eyed expression playfully.

“I didn’t realize.” His voice lowers, a slight slouch affecting his always-perfect posture. “I guess I assumed you were eighteen, since you’re a senior.”

“Don’t throw yourself off the bleachers,” I tease. “It’s not that bad.”

He hums a half-hearted agreement, staring off in silence.

I elbow him, confused by his reaction. “Seriously. My prognosis is fine; being seventeen isn’t fatal. I will turn eighteen soon enough. And clubbing doesn’t appeal to me anyway. At all.”

“Neither does anything about people your age,” he says with another chuckle.

“That’s not entirely true. I may be shy, but you find me one person my age that says I’ve ever been unkind to them. And, hello, I’m at a ballgame!”

“Which I can tell you’re thoroughly enjoying.”

“About as much as I’d enjoy the club.”

I speak the truth, but can’t ignore the tiny surge of aggravation that attempts to swell up inside me. I have absolutely no desire to go to a sweaty, loud meat market also known as a club. But for some reason, it’s annoying me that Savannah can and will be going.

I don’t like the dark shift in my already-bad mood, so I attempt to lighten up the conversation.

“So, is this your first American football game?”

“It is.”

“Don’t feel bad. Mine too.” I nudge his shoulder with my own, and finally see his somberness start to lift.

“Really?” His reply drips with sarcasm. “Like I said before, I was surprised to see you here tonight. So that news? Not surprising at all.” I give him a bored, unimpressed look, which causes his own easy grin to transform into full-blown laughter. “I’d enjoy taking you to a rugby game one day, like we play back home. I think you’d find it much more entertaining.”

“Why would you possibly think that?”

“Well, for one thing, the physicality is much more…present. We don’t wear all that padding, or helmets. In fact, I often tend to play shirtless.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I can’t recall…” He glances up at the scoreboard, which shows a score of twenty-four to zero. “Ever taking an arse-beating like this sad showing.”

“You play rugby?” I sound more fascinated than I’d intended, and clear my throat quickly while shifting in discomfort. “I just…I mean, that must be fun.”

“What must be fun?”

Clay chooses that moment to return with the hot chocolate I’d long since forgotten about.

“Oh, Kingston was telling me how he plays rugby back home. And thank you.” I take the steaming Styrofoam cup from him.