Plus, when I casually mentioned getting together yesterday after class, both of them piped up that they were sick of being stuck at home on the weekends.
Both are juniors, but it doesn’t sound like either of them have best friends at school, and lord knows my new teammates aren’t working out the way I planned.
I nervously fiddle with the belt loops of my high-waisted jeans, watching up the road for both Nalla and Priya—we’ve agreed to meet in front of the rugby house and I’m early, my apprehensive nerves vibrating.
Ashley Dryden-Jones wants nothing to do with me, and here I am about to ambush him in his own house.
Well, not his house—but on his turf.
I should be ashamed of myself and just leave him be, but my pride and conscience won’t allow me to.
I hate when someone doesn’t like me.
I have to make it right.
It’s eating me alive that I hurt his feelings and wounded his pride. I knew it was wrong and yet I did it anyway, and now I have to live with myself.
Worse, I have to see him twice a week in class.
Hear that ridiculous accent.
Watch his smug mouth as he knowingly ignores me.
I know he ate those cupcakes; he wouldn’t have taken them home otherwise—not when he could have dumped them in the trash on his way out of the lecture hall.
Six
Ashley
I notice as soon as she walks through the front door of the house—not because Georgia is overly tall, or even overly stunning, or because she’s with the two girls from our business class group.
I notice her because…
It’s Georgia.
She pissed me off and got me butthurt—an American phrase I’ve latched onto—and now she’s on my radar.
In my class.
Up my arse.
Needling me twenty-four seven because she’s trying to get back on my good side.
Which, according to her, doesn’t exist as she thinks I’m fug.
I’d be lying if I stood here and pretended I don’t find Georgia attractive. Lying if I said it didn’t sting that it’s one-sided.
Georgia is beautiful in that pure, girl-next-door kind of way. The kind of pretty where you imagine someone with wildflowers and wind blowing through her hair, sun hitting her face in the summer, floral summer dress, and what the hell am I going on about?
She’s done up tonight, long hair falling in a straight sheet, the same way it was that Friday we met.
She wears it pulled back for class, I’ve noticed, probably coming straight from practice and in a mad rush.
From my vantage point, I can see her scanning the room, searching.
For me.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the plywood makeshift bar a few of my teammates erected in the corner of the room, waiting for Georgia’s eyes to land on me, knowing full well she’ll be embarrassed to be caught.
I’m not daft—I know she’s here on a mission to redeem herself; she gave that plot away when she baked me cupcakes and brought them to the lecture hall.
Yummy, delicious cupcakes.
They were good, but not so bloody good I’m going to forgive her for being an insensitive arsehole.
“Yo, Britain.” I get jostled by a giant hand as Stewart calls me by the nickname he sometimes uses. “Don’t get mad, but Allie brought her friend tonight.”
Eh? What does his girlfriend bringing a friend to a party have to do with me?
“Isn’t America a free country?”
“You know, so we can double.”
“Double what?”
Stewart—whose first name is Braeden—rolls his eyes like I’m slow on the uptake and reminds me what a double is.
“I told you about the double date after the game, remember?”
“What I remember is telling you I didn’t need to be set up.”
That’s what I said, right? I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, let alone something I said to the lad a few days ago.
Stewart drinks from the plastic cup in his hand, beer foam covering the tip of his handlebar mustache. He’s wearing aviator glasses and a khaki green flight suit, looking quite douchey as usual.
“It’s one date, and Ariel—”
“Are you mad? I don’t need to be set up.”
“Bro, you have to put yourself out there.”
“I am out there.”
Georgia’s head bobs among the crowd, still taller than most of the girls in the room. Easy to spot and keep track of.
If a bloke wanted to pay attention to her.
Which I do not.
“You’ve been here four years, dude, and I’ve never seen you on a date. You need to get a life.”
“I have a life.” One that includes more responsibility than he could ever dream of. The duty behind a title I’ll inherit, land, which means I won’t be single forever—I’ll need to get married, have a wife and heirs.
It’s the British aristocratic way.
Stewart sips at his beer.
I ignore him and signal for Pauly, the “bartender”, to pour me one from the keg, too. No sense in standing here idly, letting Stew harass me about women.