“Yeah, it’s me.” I scrub my armpits, getting them good and sudsy. “I’m so gross I didn’t want to leave without showering.”
“Tell me about it. I have sweat dripping everywhere. Something must be wrong with the air conditioning units—today was ridiculous.” Her voice comes from the stall beside me, and I hear the water turn on, shower curtain pulled back, its plastic liner dragging against the tile floor because it’s too long. Whoever installed it wasn’t focused on accuracy—only getting the job done.
My stomach growls.
Guess that burger earlier didn’t fill me up as well as I was hoping it would.
“I’m starving,” Kaylee muses out loud as if reading my thoughts. “I ate my last protein bar before we got here.”
“We could order something.”
“True.”
It’s quiet for some time as we both work on cleaning ourselves, and while it’s void of conversation, I step completely beneath the spray and tip my head back, letting the hot stream of water hit my face. Turn so my back is facing the wall; water washes through my hair, weighing it so it falls halfway down my back in a sheet.
Ugh this feels so good.
Body aches.
Muscles hurt.
Brain tired.
“I can’t wait until this season is over,” my roommate moans in the stall next to me, shutting her water off, followed by the sound of the towel being yanked off the shower bar. The slap of her rubber flip-flops against the floor.
“Same. I feel like I’m getting too old for this.” I laugh to make it sound like I’m joking, but deep down inside, we both know I’m not. It’s no secret between Kaylee and me that my mother pushed me into this sport—unlike hers, who couldn’t care less if she’s on a team.
“Let’s just watch movies tonight and order pizza. We’ve earned it.”
“Deal.”
I stay in the shower, basking in the steamy goodness for another fifteen minutes, letting myself get drenched. Letting my muscles loosen. Letting my worries wash down the drain.
Dress quickly in joggers and a hoodie.
Slide into broken-in Converse.
Hair wet.
Backpack on.
I come up short when I shove the door to the women’s locker room open, an unwelcome but familiar figure against the opposite wall.
Kyle leans there, one long leg bent, heel of one chunky black combat boot planted against the cement cinder block.
He stands up straight when he sees me, full attention.
I glance up the hall and down the hall. Is he here to see me?
I’m confused, we haven’t spoken in two weeks, and for good reason; he’s a gaslighting liar and I want nothing to do with him.
“Hey.”
I inwardly groan. What the hell is he doing here? Is he seeing someone on the cheer team? “Were you waiting for me?”
“Yeah.” So cool. So casual.
So cringe.
“What do you want?” I walk past him and head toward the exit, doing my best to ignore the six-foot-three giant next to me.
He stops short of the heavy, glass doors leading to the parking lot.
“Are you avoiding me, Lilly?”
“Yes!” I snort. “Yes, I’m avoiding you! We broke up, Kyle. You were sending people dick pics and sliding into random girls’ DMs, remember?”
His eyes go wide when I use the word dick, probably from shock; he’s never heard me use profane words like dick or cock because I always thought I had to watch my language in front of him.
Also, why am I explaining to a grown-ass man why he should leave me the hell alone now that we’ve broken up?
Grown?
Ha! He still acts like an adolescent boy.
“It was a mistake.”
I snort again, stepping out into the cold, fall weather. Wet hair suddenly seems like a terrible idea—instant regret.
“Kyle, I don’t care what your reasons were—you showed me time and again the kind of person you were, and I’m never going back to that place. Maybe someday, you’ll grow out of the phase where you need your ego fueled by random girls sucking your dick and getting on all fours.” I shift the backpack on my shoulder to the other side, drained. “You’re gross.”
“I’m gross,” he deadpans.
“Take your dirty dick somewhere else.”
His jaw drops—pretty sure somewhere inside his head, his brain has been knocked loose and is rolling around in there, uselessly.
No offense to Kyle, but…
“Uh…” he cavemans. “Can’t we at least be friends?”
“Friends?”
“You know.” He wiggles his bushy brows suggestively, and I want to throw up in my mouth a little.
Ew.
Ew, ew, EWWWW!
Barf.
He doesn’t mean friends, he means… “Friends with benefits? No thanks. I’m not looking to catch any STIs, but thanks.” His next girlfriend can worry about that. “You have some fucking nerve.”
“Where is all this coming from?” he has the audacity to ask, as if I were the problem here. As if I don’t have the right to be bitter.
“You made me wake up and see my worth. And you…” I look at him from top to bottom. “Don’t deserve me.”