Page 4

She nods, and I spin to leave the office. Laney steps out of my way, but her footsteps follow as I march through the locker room.
“Kenna?” I don’t slow down. “Kenna!”
Nope, not today. Today I get to be the best friend whose heart got stomped on.
They’ve been practicing together for a while now…
She never said a word. I sprint past the pool and practically lunge out of the double doors. Instead of breathing in chlorine-free air, I smack right into a wall of muscle and inhale the scent of sweet cedar.
Strong hands on my shoulders right me, and I’m so angry that I turn a scowl at my savior. When I see who it is, that scowl deepens.
West Brooks. All-star football player. Big man on campus that all the girls fawn over right along with the rest of the stupid jocks. He’s drop-dead gorgeous with dark hair and green eyes. He’s always wearing a stoic face that says he’s miles above everyone else, his prominent chin shoved into the air like he’s a god and we’re all just his puny servants.
I don’t care who he is. If he wears a football jersey at Warner’s, he’s my enemy.
“Fuck off,” I growl, shoving away from him. Not sure if I’m actually mad at him because he’s here to witness my little meltdown or because I had the momentary thought that he was good-looking. Or maybe I’m just projecting my hatred for Laney onto everyone else.
One of the jersey chasers hanging onto the crook of his elbow laughs incredulously as I walk away. “Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
Well, it’s all I can muster from someone who belongs to the team who completely ruined my life.
CHAPTERTWO
West
The momentmy hands touch McKenna’s shoulders, a possessiveness takes hold of me. My fingers dig into her skin, and a dormant voice in my head growlsmine.
She is fucking beautiful, I think, as the tips of my fingers begin to tingle, followed by shockwaves of darker, covetous thoughts that would get me shot down if voiced. Her hair lies in honey-brown waves past her shoulders, and once the pungent chemical aroma from the pool subsides, all I smell is her. It’s a sort of sweetness, a tease that makes me want to eat her up.
Her slight frame stiffens. She’s at least half a foot shorter than me, and I dial back to retreat, but for some reason, I can’t get my hands to let go. They stay where they are, righting her on her feet as she pegs me with an angry glare.
The scar on the right side of her face is inflamed, but my eyes don’t wander there. They only see her. The complete package that is McKenna Knowles.
Everything about her screams “get the hell away from me,” but I can’t heed my body’s base impulse. Her very nature calls to me. Like a cactus, her thorny edges are fucking gorgeous.
“Fuck off,” she seethes, tearing herself away.
I blink. In my head, that was going differently. But I know better. Kenna has every right to hate me.
Off my left shoulder, one of the girls who hangs on every word I say spouts something that makes my back stiffen. I don’t even hear the words, it’s the tone of her voice directed at Kenna’s retreating form that sets me off.
I unwind the girl’s arm from around mine and turn the other way, my heart still beating in my chest like the roar of the crowd at championships. How can just one touch from Kenna give me the same feeling as thousands of others chanting my name?
She’s an enigma.
I make my way toward the exit, and my phone feels like an anvil in my pocket. Whenever I see Kenna in person, this is how our interactions start and end, but through my phone, there’s a whole other world of possibilities.
“West,” the girl complains behind me.
I know her name, but it’s like one of those useless facts we learn in science. I wish I could unlearn it to make room for more important stuff. Like whether Kenna prefers french fries or tater tots. Does she prefer Marvel over DC? And what does her skin taste like… Don’t get me wrong, jersey chasers have their merits at the right time and place, but this is not one of those times.
I walk off with a determined stride, and the hallway parts for me. Some girls peer up at me and blush. Others meet my stare with a seductive look as if they’re trying to lure me to their side.
A male voice starts chanting, “Hulk, Hulk, Hulk!”
I raise my fist in the air because that’s what they expect of me. I’m their Bulldog poster boy.
Someone else calls out, “How’s practice, Big Man?” I turn toward the voice with a smirk on my face. The guy laughs. “That’s right,” he shouts as I continue the other way.