Moments like these make me miss Mike—my old teammate who could deflect attention with a joke and make me laugh even when I wanted to throw punches. Now he’s across the country, living the dream, shacked up with his wife Olivia.
Lucky bastard.
What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes. With my girl, of course.
The elevator doors start to slide shut.
Almost.
Unfortunately, Amber shoots her arm out, slamming the doors back open with a smug little toss of her hair. She doesn’t blink, just stands there, staring at me.
“I think I forgot my lip balm,” she purrs.
“Annnd?” her friend deadpans.
Amber licks her lips. A slow, deliberate swipe that makes my spine itch. Then she looks at me like I’m one of those delicious hot dogs they sell for a dollar at my games.
“And I need to go upstairs to get it,” she says, her eyes dragging over every inch of my chest. “No one wants to kiss a girl with chapped lips, do they, Zach?”
“You're disturbed.” Her friend groans, grabbing Amber by the arm, and shoving her into the elevator before I can bolt.
As I press the button for the fifth floor, I can feel it. Her breath. On my neck. She has to be tiptoeing to get that kind of angle.
“So, Zach,” Amber breathes, her voice way too sweet. “Those are some pretty flowers. Who are they for?”
I glance over my shoulder, and if “thirsty” had a picture in the dictionary, Amber would be it. Jittery and almost salivating at the mouth, she’s really starting to make me regret not taking the stairs.
Jacob Miller, St. Michael’s last quarterback, warned me this would happen. Said girls go crazy for QB1, but it would die down after freshman year.
Well, it’s been a year, and it’s no different.
The sheer amount of phone numbers I’ve been handed in the past week alone is ridiculous. They’re slipped into my backpack, shoved into my locker vent at the stadium, and sent via my buddies every single day.
These girls might think they’ll catch me on the right day, in the right mood, with the right dress, but there’s only one woman for me, and she’s currently on the fifth floor of this building—probably curled up with her textbooks, completely unaware that I’m one minor inconvenience away from snapping.
I watch the elevator numbers crawl.
2…
“The flowers are for my wife,” I answer with just enough clarity for it to sound serious.
Amber gasps like I just announced a national emergency. “You're married?”
3…
“Yup.”
Okay, okay—she’s going to kill me when she finds out I'm claiming her as my wife to random people, but if this is the only way I can stop them from hounding me, then that's what I'm going to do, because it’s not technically a lie.
In my head, she’s been my wife since we walked out of South Point Prep, and I’m just waiting for her to catch up.
4…
“Did you hear that?” Amber whispers. “He's married to that Honey girl.”
My hands clench around the flowers, and my jaw ticks because I know where this is going.
“Lucky bitch. She isn't even that cute,” Amber mutters, thinking I won’t hear, but we’re in an elevator, and there’s nowhere for bullshit to hide.