Ella grabs my arm and pulls me aside. “Go stop him,” she pleads.
“I can’t. If I try to buy the tickets, he’ll lose the respect of his teammates.”
“You guys are idiots.” She looks like she wants to slap me. Frankly, I could use a blow to my face.
Bran returns with the tickets and hands them out. I stand off to the side and wait for everyone else to get them first. When Bran reaches me, I renew my offer to pay.
“I’ve played this game so many times with my brothers that I could make these shots with my eyes shut. Let me pay, okay?”
Bran snorts. “So you set me up?”
“Not exactly.” But I don’t sound convincing, because I did set him up, just not in the way that it turned out.
“I guess I thought we were playing on the same team,” he mumbles, “but thanks for showing me your true colors early on. I know what the rules are now.” He slaps a ride card in my hand and then walks off.
“You’re a real jerk.”
I look up to see Hartley approaching me. Her gray eyes look like two storm clouds.
Misery jams in my throat. I swallow hard, then gesture for her to follow me to a spot out of earshot of our classmates. Miraculously, she comes with me.
“It’s not what it looked like,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “I was going to lose so I could pay for the tickets.”
She shakes her head in disgust. “Yeah. Sure, Easton.”
“It’s true.”
“Uh-huh. Then why’d you play the stupid game anyway? Why not just pay for the tickets outright?”
“I wanted Bran to look good in front of Felicity.”
“What?” Hartley’s brow crinkles.
“I thought maybe if she got hot for someone else, she’d forget this stupid idea that she and I are dating.” Jeez. The whole thing sounds ridiculous now that I’m trying to explain it to someone else. “Look, I made a mistake. I didn’t mean for Bran to be out that money.”
Hartley searches my expression for what feels like forever. “You really weren’t trying to be an ass to him, were you?”
I unhappily shake my head. I realize that I’m the male version of Felicity. I won’t leave Hartley alone, even though she keeps demanding it. I’m self-centered. I make other people miserable with my stupid, impulsive decisions.
Actually, that’s not very Felicity like. She’s a cunning planner. I just want to have a good time.
But not at the expense of others.
“Oh, Easton.” There’s a wealth of disappointment in those two words.
“I know.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m going to fix it.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. You’re my best friend, though. Can you help me out?” I throw her a pleading glance.
She surprises me by moving closer to squeeze my arm. “We’ll figure something out,” she assures me.
And then she proceeds to shock me again—this time by planting a quick kiss on my cheek. Maybe I’m not the male Felicity, after all. Hartley likes me and she’s as decent as they come.
My entire body soars from that one second of physical contact. Down, boy, I order. We’re friends with Hartley and that means no getting excited in inappropriate places.
“Coming?” she asks, a few steps ahead of me.
A perverted comeback pops into my head, but this time my brain beats out my mouth. It’s a close call, though.
Chapter 18
The next day, I’m on damage control. First order of business? Make things right with my quarterback, whose only crime yesterday was being the unwilling pawn in my mission to rid myself of Felicity.
I wait until the locker room clears out before I approach Bran. “Got a sec?”
He scowls at my approach. “What do you want, Royal?”
I offer a rueful smile. “I come with a peace offering.”
“‘That so?” He doesn’t look at me as he shuts the locker door harder than necessary. He’s already dressed for practice and looks impatient to get going.
I glance around to make sure we’re alone, then hold out the ten crisp hundred-dollar bills in my palm.
His green eyes flash. “What the hell?”
“Look, I’m sorry about last night, man. You were right, okay? I was trying to set you up, but not in the way you think.” I try to press the bills into his clenched fist. “Take it.”
He shoves my hand away. “Keep your money, Royal. I’m not a charity case.”
“This isn’t charity. It’s reparations.”
Bran snorts.
“I’m serious. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you or dis you about not being loaded like the rest of us.”
“No?” His voice is tight. “Then what were you trying to do?”
I heave out a sigh. “I was hoping you’d shoot the hell out of those targets and get Felicity so hot and bothered that she’d ditch me for you.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Um. What?”
“I made a huge mistake agreeing to go out with that girl,” I admit. “She was on my case at the carnival, and I figured, hell, maybe I could get her off my back and onto your dick. Win-win.”
A reluctant smile creeps onto his face. “Win-win? As in, you win and Felicity wins? Because I don’t see how I’m a winner in that scenario.”
“Hey, she’s not a bad chick.” I’m lying through my teeth. She’s awful. But I already screwed up and cost Bran probably all of his savings—I’ll look like a total dick if I admit I tried to saddle him with the demon spawn.
“She’s hot,” I add, and this time I’m not lying. Felicity is hot. “She’s popular. She comes from old-school money.” I shrug. “She wouldn’t be the worst choice of girlfriends if you’re looking to date someone at Astor.”
He bends down to lace up his shoes. “Uh-huh. If she’s such a great choice, why don’t you want her?”
“Because I don’t do girlfriends,” I answer truthfully. “I suck at that shit. I was wasted when I said I’d go out with her, wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.”
“Okay.” Bran straightens and runs a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Let me get this straight—you bet me in a shooting match so that you could lose and I’d look good in front of Felicity?”
I give a sheepish nod.
“Because you want me to date her.” He pauses. “So that you don’t have to date her.”
I nod again, biting my lip to keep from laughing. But then Bran barks out a laugh, and I can’t help but chuckle in return.
“That’s some messed-up logic.”
“I’m a Royal. Messed up is my middle name.” I shake my head in exasperation. “I just didn’t count on you getting stage fright and blowing the match.”
“Hey,” he protests. “A thousand bucks was on the line. I choked.”
I reach out and smack him on his arm—his non-throwing one. “Don’t let Coach hear you say that. Choking ain’t allowed.”
“There’s no money on our games,” he replies. “Which means no money pressure. Just the pressure Coach puts on us to win.”
“Money pressure?”