Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(48)

It worked?

“I want to see you,” he said. “Right now.”

I was almost to the balcony gate when a fierce grab yanked me back beneath the tree. Bryn pulled me into a tight hug.

“We did it!” she whispered into my ear, and in doing so, she pulled me back into the reality I had left behind during my confession.

“We did it,” I whispered back. The rain cleared my head and realization began to set in. Holy shit. I did it.

I blinked at Bryn, and up at the steps that I felt I had just claimed access to. Tuba tugged at my arm, trying to remove Bryn’s sweatshirt. I witnessed it all as if peering up through a tunnel, seeing the rest of the night unfold from a place of deep, bitter envy.

By this point I was crying, but Bryn didn’t notice my tears in the rain as she made a dash up the stairs.

Tuba said gently, “Let’s get you to bed. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.”

“As opposed to how I feel now?” I mumbled.

I turned and followed her home, my feet heavy, and my heart dragging after me.





Chapter Eighteen


CeCe


We only made it to two home football games a year. Our seasons usually kept us playing at opposite locations, for logistical reasons. Also, fans that attended four hour Saturday afternoon football games rarely made it back for our evening matches. I couldn’t blame them. Four hours of standing outside and enduring the bipolar weather conditions of Wisconsin, with your emotions constantly jerked up and down, made the game so exhausting to watch it was as if you were out on the field, playing alongside the athletes.

When we made it to a home game, we dressed in team practice uniforms. We wore our hair braided or clipped in matching maroon ties. We sat together as a solid group, a tall pool of dark red.

As Tuba and I walked with Mac and VanBree to the stadium, some of the fans stopped us to take pictures and ask for autographs. Music blared and pumped around us from speakers set up on front yards packed with people. The wind carried drifts of brats and potatoes chips. Everyone wore school colors so that we resembled a maroon river flooding through the street toward the mouth of the Camp Davis Stadium, an arena we shared with the college football team.

We found our seats at the edge of the student section, close to the field, just as the football players ran onto the turf behind the cheerleaders. You could hear the student section inhale a communal breath before it erupted in a roar. The players ran out like soldiers, focused and ready for war.

When Emmett’s number, 3, stood out toward the end of the pack of players, the fans roar noticeably shifted in volume, especially from the student section. Bryn sat in front of me, next to Tuba and Mac. They all had cell phones raised, taking pictures and videos of the players.

As the game started the student section ruckus began. There was never down time. There was too much heckling to do, anything to distract the visiting team. You do not sit down in the student section. You stand. You give hell. You have a responsibility to evoke fear and condescending hatred to the visiting team’s sideline.

I kept my eyes trained on the field. On one particular player. I stared until I got my full. Finally, I could look at Emmett without worrying about him looking back.

He was incredible to watch. His poise, his confidence, his intense concentration on the game. He read the field with a scientist’s accuracy. He could guess blitzes before they came; he could predict movements from his running backs. He was psychic and telepathic. It was his own form of brilliance. He celebrated a pass or a touchdown with two fingers motioning to the sky.

“Your boyfriend just scored another touchdown,” VanBree shouted to Bryn, who was texting someone on her phone.

Bryn raised a hand into the air and cheered, keeping her eyes on the screen. It was almost halftime, and it was Emmett’s fourth touchdown pass. We were up by twenty-four points. The game was bordering on boring.

“What did you do to him? Offer a blow job for every point he scores for motivation?” Tuba asked. “He’s on fire.”

Bryn’s eyes were even brighter and larger than usual, beautifully framed around a feather of dark lashes. Her smile spread wide across her face. Everyone squeezed around Bryn to listen. I looked away from her beaming face. I guess I deserved this.

“Details, woman,” Tuba shouted.

“Have you guys had sex?” Aisha squealed. I gritted my teeth together.

“No, but pretty damn close.” Bryn giggled and her giggle turned into a full grown laugh followed by more giggles. I spotted an exit sign in the stadium about twenty feet away and considered running for it.

“What’s he like?” VanBree begged.

“He’s so intense,” she said. “It’s like he’s letting out all this pent-up emotion that’s been building and building. It’s amazing. He’s so, un…un…”

“Uncensored?” Aisha chimed in.

“Not exactly,” Bryn said.

“Uncircumcised?” VanBree guessed.

“Uninhibited,” I stated.

“Yes!” Bryn agreed. “That’s it.”

I had to make a concerted effort not to frown.

“It’s incredible. The way he takes off my clothes. Usually guys just pull and yank. They have no respect for cashmere. Half the time they stretch out the neck and the waist of all my tops. Or they god-forbid rip something. But he’s so smooth. It’s like he’s unwrapping me.”