I Bet You(7)

Blaze appears at my right, a hand on my bicep as he tugs on me, but I’m immovable. This little fight has been building for months. “Dude, let him go.”

“Get out of my face, Blaze,” I say, my eyes not wavering from Archer’s.

“You’re a leader, man. You can’t be pushing people around,” he says, bouncing around us.

I grit my teeth. “We’re playing like shit. No one cares. Why should I?”

“I care, man.” Blaze looks around for help, but the rest of the team is silent, waiting. I feel their eyes on me. Hell, everyone is watching me. All the damn time. I’m sick of it.

“This is exactly what Coach was talking about.” He gives Archer a glare. “Plus, Archer was just kidding, right?”

He nods and attempts to raise his hands in mock surrender. “All I’m saying is it looked like you have a thing for her.”

“I don’t.” I move in closer and put my nose to his. “And if I really wanted her, I could have her.” The words feel wrong, but I can’t pull them back. The truth is, part of me was wired up and excited during the bet—excited to see if she’d say yes. What if she had?

Would I have stood her up? Maybe. I don’t know.

A sly expression grows in Archer’s eyes. “Prove it.”

I frown. What the hell is he talking about?

“Prove it,” he repeats, louder and with a bit of shrill in his tone. He looks around at the players. “Everyone listen up. We’re going to have us a doozy of a bet—one we don’t put on the board.”

My jaw twitches again. “I’m not playing your games.”

“The bets are good for the team. We’ve been doing it for years,” someone says, and I see most of the players nodding. A few rumble amongst themselves.

“…yeah, Ryker…”

Archer smirks and gives me a victorious look. “I bet you can’t tap that, number one. I bet you can’t score that girl before homecoming. Defense against offense for the whole shebang. If you lose, the whole offense loses. Got it?”

Some of the offensive players agree and clap me on the back, offering words of encouragement.

“You got this, dude.”

“Easy peasy.”

“Don’t you want that trophy?”

I eye the guys surrounding me, reading their excitement, and tension wraps around me. My teeth grind together. A bet to fuck a girl is not in my wheelhouse.

I release Archer with a push.

He gives me a hard look, one that tells me he isn’t going to let this bet go. “It’s all up to you, number one. If you want to win that trophy, you’ve got to bang Penelope.” He curls his lip. “I don’t think you can do it.”

Bang Penelope.

My gut tightens and my fists curl at his crude words. Penelope and I may not like each other, but I do respect her, and I don’t like him talking about her like she’s a piece of meat.

“Fuck off, Archer.” I give him and everyone a final glare then stalk out of the locker room with Blaze on my heels.

“Come on, man,” he says as we walk out of the field house. “What’s so bad about the bet? I don’t think she hates you. There’s something between you and her already.”

I frown. “No, there isn’t.”

“I disagree.”

I give him side-eye and he shrugs. “What? Everybody thinks I don’t notice shit because I’m spastic, but it looked pretty steamy behind that plant before she dumped the water on you. She was into you.” He sighs as we walk to the parking lot to get in our cars. “Besides, wouldn’t it be awesome to get one over on Archer? It would bug the shit out of him.”

I get to my black Chevy truck and unlock it with the clicker.

He watches me. “Dude, take one for the team. Ask her out again. Hell, you never know, you might really like her.”

“Nope. Not interested.” I motion to the passenger side. “Now, do you need a ride to class or what? You don’t need to miss that upper level psych class. I saw the F you got on your paper. Focus, man—we need to keep those grades up. What if the NFL doesn’t work out?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m going to class.” He exhales and gets in the truck. “I just don’t see why you won’t at least play along.”

“Football isn’t fun and games,” I tell him as I crank the vehicle. “It’s serious shit and we can’t screw it up. The draft is coming, and everyone’s watching us.”

“You thought the ketchup was fun.”

I sigh.

“You like annoying her,” he adds in a singsong voice.

“Maybe.”

He exhales.

We pull out of the parking lot, and I should be thinking about my next class, but in the back of my mind I’m still replaying Archer’s wager in my head.

I bet you can’t score that girl before homecoming.





Penelope



I’m standing in my kitchen, about to feed my bird when my phone pings with a text from an unknown number. I set the food down and study the message.

Hey, you there? I want to talk.

Hmmm. I study the text. Talk? Well, that sounds serious and it’s obviously from someone who gets straight to the point. No bullshit—I like it. Studying the number, it seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. My brow wrinkles. It’s the prefix for this area, so it could be anyone around Magnolia.

I shrug. Unknown texts can be intriguing. Once I got a series of messages about the best toga party on campus, and Charisma and I ended up asking for the address and crashing. It was out on a farm in the middle of a field, and there was free chardonnay—albeit, not the best, but I’ll drink any kind of white wine. To this day, Charisma claims to have hooked up with some guy in the barn who blew her mind. Too bad she was too drunk to recall his name…

Anyway. Fun things can happen when you eavesdrop on someone’s texts.

Talk about what? I reply.

It’s better if we do this face to face. I got your address from someone in class. Would you mind if I dropped by? I need to see you.

I need to see you. I make a whistling noise under my breath. Oh, that’s a tantalizing phrase, and it makes my romantic heart jump. It’s so…emotional. Is this a guy or a girl texting? With the brevity of words and straight-to-the-point way of speaking, I’m guessing male. It’s likely a college guy since he mentioned class, and obviously they don’t know each other well since he had to ask where she lives…hmmm… My head pictures a lonely guy who’s just trying to make things right with a girl.

But what if it’s the mob and this is a lure so a hitman can kill the snitch who’s squealed to the police? Maybe “face to face” really means I’m going to whack you.

Too much Dateline, Penelope.

Yet…

I’m fascinated as I pace around the kitchen. I decide to indulge my curiosity and text him back.

What do you want to talk about? Just text it. I want to know all the things!

There’s a pause, and I wonder what he’s thinking. What if this issue is a big deal to him? Worry pricks at me, and I feel guilty for being nosy.

Are you okay? I send.

His reply arrives fast. Just a shitty day, but this isn’t about me. Look, I’m sorry for what happened between us. I want to make it up to you.

How will you make it up to me? I ask, excitement curling. Type it here. Because this girl is dying to know.

My mom always said I was too curious for my own good and it’s landed me in trouble plenty of times, but I can’t resist prying away layers to get to the heart of the matter. It’s part of who I am. Maybe it’s what pushes me to be a writer, to get all those emotions out and bounce them around to see what they can do.

He hasn’t replied after several beats, and my conscience tugs at me again. I waffle about coming clean just as another text comes in.

What do you want? he says.

You, I send, biting my lip. What if I read this scenario completely wrong? Have I screwed everything up and given myself away?

Me? Are you sure?

Yes, I reply.

I mean, I could be wrong and this isn’t a boy/girl love thing, but what if I’m not? I’m committed to seeing how this plays out now. Romance must always win! is my motto.

There are three dots on my screen for several moments, as if the person on the other end is typing and deleting his response over and over.

Come on, I think, clutching the phone in anticipation.

You can’t handle me, babe, is his reply.

Babe? My eyes widen. Oh. This is a bad, bad boy. And his words send a buzz right through me.

He sends another. Let’s talk about this in person. Do you mind if I come by your house tonight? 8:00 PM?

I study the words. Well, technically, I’ll be at my sorority meeting and then off to dinner with some pledges, so…what’s the harm? Maybe I’ll reunite two people who obviously need to talk.

Before I can reply, another message appears.

You see right through me and don’t take my shit, he replies. I dig that.

Oh, wow, he’s getting sweet? I grab a raspberry sucker from the drawer next to the fridge and pop it in my mouth.

I believe you. We can work this out, I send happily and then announce aloud, “Call me Dr. Phil, people. I’m saving a relationship somewhere.”

Can’t wait to see you, I send. Wait…was that too much? Nah. See you at 8.