Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(58)

He took a step toward me. “CeCe—”

“Thanks,” I whispered to him as I passed and headed out the door.

Tuba and VanBree followed behind me. We walked out of the weight room and turned down the hall.

“CeCe, what the hell just happened back there?” Tuba asked, but I ignored her. VanBree grabbed my hand, but I twisted my fingers out of her grip.

“Leave it alone,” I said before I swung the locker room door open. I had on my captain mask—militant and stripped of emotion. “I don’t want any gossip about this right now.”

…

EMMETT

I sat on the ground in the stadium tunnels and examined the knuckles on my left hand, pink and swollen from the punch.

I am such an asshole.

Sure, I had envisioned a hundred ways to hurt Tucker. Some of the scenarios involved a bat. A dumbbell. One of those stupid rowing oars shoved in his stomach. I thought the mental visuals would diffuse the urge to actually pummel him in public.

I turned the piano music up on my headphones, trying to calm down. I stared at the ceiling and concentrated on the notes.

The locker room door swung open and I looked up. CeCe’s feet faltered for a step when she saw me. She hesitated, like she had the sudden urge to turn and flee back inside, but the metal door slammed shut. I looked up at her, a sheepish apology on my face.

I knew she would be the first player out. She was always the first one to show up at McClain’s for meals, usually reading a book.

I started to realize how much of CeCe I had noticed.

She zipped up her black winter jacket and shoved her hands in gray wool mittens. She looked annoyed, but I needed her to let me apologize.

I knew she preferred fighting her own battles.

“Your girlfriend’s still inside,” she said, her voice gruff. She was mad. She started walking down the tunnel and I picked myself up. I pulled my headphones down and caught up to her.

She tugged a black stocking cap over her damp hair and looked at me with surprise.

“The tutoring session is tonight,” I reminded her.

She sighed. There was a lesson at McClain’s for writing English essay exams. We both signed up last week.

“It’s not until 7:30,” she noted.

I studied her profile. Her jaw was set tight. I couldn’t stand the idea that I upset her even more. That was the last thing I was trying to do.

We walked down the concrete tunnel and our footsteps echoed through the hollow space. We were both quiet and I listened to the sound of our shoes, like I was trying to communicate in some sort of primitive conversation.

Tap. I’m sorry.

Tap. For hurting you.

Tap. Not Tucker.

Tap. Just to clarify.

I opened the heavy metal door and when we walked outside, the early evening sky greeted us with huge, heavy snowflakes. We walked into a world that looked ancient, like a scene from an old black and white movie. The fluffy, thick snow painted the edges of buildings and windows white and gray against the black concrete.

“I think I need to walk,” CeCe said. She started to head across the parking lot and I caught her arm. She looked down at my hand, holding onto her jacket sleeve.

“You want to get some food?” I asked.

She pointed to the McClain entrance like it was obvious, and I gave her a pained look and pointed to the street.

“No buffets tonight. Let’s get some real food. I’ll treat.”

She eyed me skeptically. “What about Bryn?” she asked. I shrugged and dropped her sleeve. Bryn would understand.

“She takes an hour to get ready after practice,” I said, which was true. We had time to kill.

We stepped through the slushy wet sidewalk and passed the gates of Edgelake. We headed down Regent Street and passed a neighborhood that stretched along the campus of UW-Madison. It was grittier, edgier than the clean-cut gated walls of Edgelake. The once grand neighborhood was swallowed up by campus growth and urban grungification, dominated by bike shops, cramped groceries, and student apartments.

I watched how the snow clung to CeCe’s eyelashes. It softened the rest of her features. She looked over at me and caught me staring. There was humor in her dark eyes, to my relief.

“Frontal assault? That’s your fighting style?” she asked.

I smiled, appreciating she could joke about it.

“That type of warfare isn’t used much anymore,” she added. “It’s usually a last ditch effort when you’ve run out of any other tactical strategies.”

I ran my hand through my hair, sweeping off a layer of snowflakes.

“I didn’t exactly plan it out,” I said. “That explains the lack of tactical strategy.” I looked over at her. “Leave it to you to critique my first fight,” I said.

“You’re first? You could have fooled me.”

I lifted the hood of my coat against the snow drift that was threatening to accumulate on my head.

“That guy’s a douche, CeCe. I can’t believe you even cared what he thought of you. He’s a fucking Easty brat.”

She smiled at the insult.

“You’re technically from the East,” she said.

“Southeast,” I corrected her.

I pointed out an Indian restaurant across the street, illuminated in tiny red lights that bordered the front windows. We crossed the street when the walk sign flashed.