We’d be secluded in the dark, sitting side-by-side, and I’d want to kiss her. For months, I’ve wanted to know if she thinks about me just as much as I think about her, and I just found out. She’s on my mind every damn day and I can’t get rid of her. I can’t shake her for the life of me. This has never happened to me before, with any woman.
I start up my car and drive through the rocky path of the parking lot. As I’m leaving, I notice three girls walking away from the carnival. It’s Ramirez, Rose, and Lakes.
Amber Lakes.
As I drive by, her eyes find mine—like she can sense that I’m still around—and our eyes latch, only for a moment. That guilt swims in her amber irises all over again and I can’t take it.
She thinks this is her fault—that she’s ruined the coach/athlete bond between us—but she’s wrong. I’ve wanted to ruin this bond from the moment I got to know her, and tonight, I completely fucked it up.
And knowing that, I look away and drive until I can no longer see the carnival lights in my rearview mirror.
TWENTY-FOUR
Never has my heart beaten so fast before.
I’m on the way to the track, Kendall, and Janine on either side of me, and all I can think about is the kiss I shared with Torres Saturday night.
“You sure you’re okay?” Janine asks me as we near the track. “Are you mad because we drank all the vodka Saturday? I’m sorry, Amber! We called you, like, three times and sent you, like, seven text messages but you didn’t pick up or respond until you found us, so we just took the shots.”
“No, I’m not mad about that,” I say quickly.
“Then what are you mad about?” Kendall asks, lightly bumping me with her arm. There’s a playful smile on her lips.
“I’m not mad at all, guys. Seriously. I’m fine. I’m just feeling kind of nauseous. I had some chicken pasta from the café and I don’t think it’s sitting too well on my stomach. I’ve been feeling like shit all day.”
“See, that’s why I don’t fuck with the food from the café,” Kendall says. “It will only give you the shits. The only good thing is their coffee and sometimes those little mini brownies they have.”
“Word,” Janine agrees as we step onto the track.
The sun is setting in the sky right now, partially hidden behind thick, gray clouds. It’s supposed to rain tonight. I can smell it coming, and if it does, we’ll most likely go to the weight room to do conditioning.
Hamilton and Foster are on the track, standing near the bench. Most of the track team is already here. The football players are already practicing.
I see Stephen throw a perfect spiraled football to one of the receivers. I look away as he throws a fist in the air, clearly proud of himself.
Stephen sent me two text messages over the weekend. I didn’t respond to either of them. I know the time will come when I have to face him, but until then, he’s not getting a word from me. Besides, I’d much rather tell him to fuck off to his face than through a text message. He’s not getting the easy way out of this.
“Ladies!” Hamilton greets us as we approach. “You’re cutting it kind of close to practice time, aren’t you?” She flips her wrist to check her watch.
“Nah. We’re two minutes early.” Kendall shrugs and begins to stretch.
“Well, looks like rain is coming sooner than we thought, so we won’t be practicing outside today. Torres and Mills are waiting at the indoor track, so we’re headed to meet them there.”
Torres’ name is enough to make my belly clench. Even his name is getting to me. I purse my lips and step sideways, trying to shove away the memories of his lips on mine, his erection digging into me through his gray sweats.
“Let’s head over.” Hamilton leads the way, and as she goes, I don’t miss the way Foster narrows her eyes at me as she passes before meeting up to Hamilton.
I roll my eyes. I am not in the mood for her shit today.
We leave the field and make our way across campus until we’re at the basketball stadium. There’s a large indoor track in the men’s weightlifting and conditioning room. Fortunately, the basketball team does drills on the basketball courts on Mondays, so we have the room to ourselves.
As Hamilton mentioned, Torres is already on the track, sporting navy blue joggers and a red T-shirt. His hair is tousled, and I can tell he didn’t put gel in it today. That same yellow whistle is hanging around his neck by a thin black rope. He doesn’t dress up much, but he honestly doesn’t have to. He looks good in athletic clothes.