Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(17)

He grabbed my guitar off the counter and headed down the hall.

“Miscreant,” Josh muttered.

I watched Frank disappear around the corner. “Wow. He’s—”

“A fucker? Yeah, I know. He’s my little brother. If he wasn’t an instrument whisperer, I’d have thrown him out on the streets years ago.”





Chapter Five


CeCe


After our home game on Saturday night, I was greeted by a handful of media waiting for interviews outside the trainer’s office. I walked out the door, trying to bend my knees which were strapped with ice bags. My shoulders and elbows were also wrapped with thick packs of ice. They made me ice for twenty minutes after every game and practice.

Two gauze bandages covered court burns on my arms. Being a defensive specialist, I willingly made myself a hitting target. Tonight I had taken a beating, but we won our first conference game, so it had been worth it.

I headed down the hallway toward a city sports reporter who was currently interviewing Tuba. The ice crunched around my knees with each step and my arms were raised off my sides, giving me the graceful march of the Hulk. I loved that sports gave women a reason to be unpretty, in the traditional sense. It made stamina, strength, endurance, and mental toughness attractive. Flushed cheeks were your makeup, muscles your accessory, and sweat your glitter. I fit in well in this fashion runway show.

Someone nudged my arm and I started with surprise to see Emmett standing next to me, next to a couple other football players. Speaking of muscles. I tried not to look directly at him, as a wise person never stares into the sun. I still felt exposed for spouting out all my music talk in his truck. There was a moment, in that intimate space, where I imagined we had been talking about us.

“Good game,” he told me.

“Sure,” I said a little over his left shoulder. I recognized a few basketball players leaning against the wall behind him, all staring into their phones.

“Seriously, you were amazing,” he told me. “I’ve never seen anyone play defense like you,” he said. “It’s like you’re psychic.”

I looked into his eyes, momentarily forgetting not to look straight at his beauty. Shit. Ouch. The harsh fluorescent lights hit his face at just the right angle. They were gray, with a ring of blue in the center.

It was the first time I had seen Emmett outside of Tshirts and practice clothes. He had on a gray sweater and jeans, the kind of heavy looking denim that you couldn’t get at a department store. He was obviously going out tonight. Now I realized why he was waiting back here.

“My roommates are having people over,” he said. “You guys want to stop by?” I focused on the way he said guys, like you would talk to a chum, a buddy, a pal.

Before I could respond, the locker room door opened and a couple of players emerged, but all eyes in the vicinity locked on Bryn. Her hair fell loose in caramel waves, and she wore a fitted white blouse, tailored black trouser shorts, and silver sandals.

I watched Emmett catch his breath at the sight of her. The reporters all looked in her direction. Bryn stole the oxygen and the spotlight like a giant vacuum.

She was the real runway model.

I looked down at my uniform, still sweaty from the game. Plastic ice packs covered nearly every joint on my body. Maybe I should have showered first.

Bryn sauntered toward us. People separated, and awestruck eyes trailed behind her like she was a human comet. Bryn might have problems expressing herself in words, but she was well versed in body language.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Emmett said under his breath. I looked over and watched the way he was drinking her in, like he had been starved.

Bryn stood next to me and tossed her caramel hair over her shoulder.

“Did you hear about the party?” Emmett asked her.

Bryn nodded and looked over at me. “Are you going?”

I fought back a sigh. Parties were up there with facials—painfully awkward. But I knew most of the football players, and they had always been respectful to me.

“I’ll walk over after the interviews,” I offered.

“Do you know the house?” Emmett asked Bryn.

I nodded. I knew the house. I was fairly certain every female on Edgelake campus knew the house. It probably solicited the most stalkers. We called it Football Frat. It was built in the early 1900s, more suited to a governor or senator—or at least the school’s chancellor—than a bunch of football players. I don’t think the architect ever intended it to house student athletes. Mopeds littered the weedy front lawn and bikes were always leaned up against the elegant pillars that framed the stained glass front doors.

“You mean the house with the balcony?” I asked. “On the second floor?”

“You got it,” Emmett said. “That balcony is right off my bedroom.”

Bryn’s eyes widened at the mention of his bedroom. It seemed to spark interest.

“How Romeo of you,” I said. “And very accommodating for your evening callers.”

“If by my evening callers you mean squirrels, then yes, it’s a luxury perch for all my ladies.”

Emmett smiled and Bryn laughed, one of her nervous laughs, a couple of octaves too high. A reporter politely waved me over, her cue that she was ready for the interview whenever I was. I nodded back, appreciating the excuse to escape The Bryn Show.