Page 8 of Play Dirty (Villalargos University #1)

The dead leaves that have started to fall on the ground crunch beneath my boots, and my hands tighten around my pumpkin espresso.

Early mornings are always chilly, so a nice warm cup of coffee is heavenly, and as usual, I’m right on time.

My favorite class, the only part of me Richard Johnson wasn’t able to negotiate out the door.

It’s not like they wanted me to get a decent degree; I just needed a hobby.

Something to keep me busy while I pretend my husband is working late again and not inside someone else.

“You need to be more like your mother,” My father’s voice echoes in my head as I step inside the studio, and the smell of wet clay fills my lungs.

Causing my body to hum with happiness. When I walk in, I’m surprised to see the class already half full of all familiar faces.

Thankfully, no Nico, one class down without having him look at me as if I’m the most despicable thing in the world.

It’s like Edward when Bella walks into class and he covers his nose, avoiding her like she’s some strange illness.

It makes me uncomfortable the way he looks at me, but avoids me all in the same breath.

Ms. Medina stands in front of her desk, red lipstick, sharp liner, black waves pinned up, and a black dress under her apron.

I slide into my seat on the edge of the third row, just close enough to be seen but far enough to be overlooked.

I hear the click of a pen and the sound of a chair being scraped upon the floor.

“Now that everyone is here, I want to welcome you back to your last year in Villalargos, and for this year's core portfolio, I’m pleased to announce it will be a collaborative sculpture.” The room turns to whispers and some blatant boos.

I, for one, agree with the negative reactions.

I need this class to escape the thoughts in my head, not work with someone while I try to forget.

“Settle down now, as I was saying, it will be a collaboration and worth half of your final grade in class.”

The groans are even louder now. I roll my eyes and take a sip of my warm espresso.

“Not only will it be partnered, but year-long and intimate.” She points at the screen to the Renaissance sculpture.

So many details in each sculpture, even emotions.

“You’ll sculpt a representation of your partner.

” She continues pacing through the room.

“Interpret each other. One piece per pair. At the end of the year, it will be part of the exhibition at the Crowned Gala.”

Of course it would.

Villalargos doesn’t believe in exams but displays. Nothing but a show.

I sip on my coffee while I think of a way to maneuver my way out of this project and whatever perfect partner she has in store for me. Names continue to be paired, then I feel the air grow colder, my fingers dig into the cardboard cup in my hand. “Shiloh Johnson and Nicolas Reyes.”

I almost spit my coffee onto the ground.

There’s no way. I listen as Ms. Medina finishes off the pairing. “Ezra Roberts and Julitte Marquez.” I wait for her to return to her desk while everyone is busy moving seats before I stand and walk over.

“Ms. Medina, I would like to change partners,” I demand softly, using my most charming smile. She doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even glance up at me before she replies. “No.”

My nostrils flare slightly– anger slowly begins to bubble beneath my skin. I’m irritated, I hate not being looked at. Something I learned about myself thanks to fucking Nicolas Reyes. “It’s a full-year project. I’d prefer to work with someone I can actually work with.”

“Mr. Reyes meets every artistic requirement. More importantly, he challenges you.” She smiles and then looks at me. “That’s exactly what this project is about.”

My hands press flat against her desk, and the cold of the laminated wood bites my skin. “And you think a soccer player with a God complex qualifies as a creative equal?” I snap, my voice darker than I intended it to be— fuck it.

A voice cuts in deep and gravely.

“I don’t have a God complex,” Nico replies flatly. “Gods get worshipped. I don't see anyone on their knees.”

Seriously, I don’t see what June sees in him; he’s abhorrent.

Narcissistic and always working out or in the field.

He’s not attentive, he’s not romantic, and he’s a liar.

That part, I’m sure of. I turn slowly, painting a smirk on my face.

He’s already sitting across my station, apron on, sleeves rolled up, exposing his impressive ink.

His dark brown hair is slightly damp, like he just showered – or ran here from practice.

His brown eyes are blazing with intensity that makes my blood boil. There Nicolas Reyes stands.

Looking completely unbothered.

Arrogant.

And fucking beautiful.

Inhumanely so.

“Gods don’t get worshipped, airhead, they get sacrificed,” I mutter, composing myself and concealing my emotions. His deep brown orbs roam over me, never reaching my eyes before he responds. “Then I guess you sculpt me as a martyr.”

Ms. Medina claps from behind me. “Perfect. Now get familiar, hands-on. The first session is freeform, get the clay moving.”

I walk back to my seat and sigh as I sit in the chair across from the man I hate. Nico doesn’t say a word, only takes a slab of the grey clay and places it on the wheel. I watch him for a bit before I begin. We work in silence for what feels like eternity, the air thick with tension. And humidity.

Suffocating. Making it hard for me to concentrate.

I find myself every so often looking at his hands, the greyish clay caked in every crease.

“Didn’t think you would come back this year.

” Says the man who can’t look me in the eyes.

As if something so insignificant as us being stuck together in another class could make me drop out of my favorite course.

Fuck him. I scoff before replying. “Didn’t think you were still here.

Especially after that incident on the field. ”

It was all over the school paper: Nicolas Reyes, player number 11, injured. I remember almost leaping from my seat as Asher slammed into Nico, causing his leg to bend at an unnatural angle.

The field broke into a fight for the first time in history; the Titans and the Sirens were not just rivals but enemies .

He chuckles low and throaty. “It’s funny how we both just keep showing up.”

This time, I don’t respond; I just grab the wet sponge and place it on the side harder than I need to. My hand grazes him, but he doesn’t even flinch. He remains so still— as if he moves or breathes, he might disappear.

How odd?

It isn’t until I step to the side that he finally releases his breath and continues to work in silence, surprisingly well. So much so that when our sculpture begins to shape, it surprises us both, and for a second, we smile and our eyes clash.

For just a second, the walls collapse, and I can see the pain—the anger before he quickly replaces it with his best poker face. “We don’t have to pretend to be friends for this. We work well. We can do that quietly.” He says as he stands right on time as the bell rings.

That asshole leaves the classroom before I can say a word. Silencing me once again.

I should hate him. And I do. But that doesn’t mean I've forgotten.

Buzz…

I look down at my phone buzzing loudly, my brows pull together as I read the social media post. What the fuck?

The Pulse?

The Pulse Blog

What is this?

And what secrets are they referring to? My stomach sinks, and a cold chill runs up my spine.

Could it?

No.

It couldn’t.

There was no one besides us that night. Could someone else know what Nico and I have buried? What we swore to forget the second it happened?

No.

Whoever is behind this tacky blog is just fishing for something or stirring the pot. I hope so. Because this is bad. Really. Really bad.

Still… I can’t shake the feeling that this year, something big will happen. And when it does, I hope that I’m ready to face the truth. But first, I need to find out who’s behind this fucking page and shut it down.