Violet tips her head back, column of her neck exposed. “Now you’re the one stuttering. You sound like me.”
“God Violet, you’re so…” I drag my hand up her body, covering her breast, squeezing it gently. Pinching the nipple.
Endorphins are majorly fucking up my shit.
“I’m crazy about you.” Shut the fuck up Zeke.
Stop talking and fuck. Her. Already.
“There is no one in my life like you, Violet. I…I…”
Don’t say it.
Don’t you dare fucking say it, you douchebag.
I gulp.
She stares up at me, half-lidded the way my friends look when they’re stoned, waiting for the next words out of my mouth, fingers stroking my back.
“You…what?” Her breathless whisper prompts me gently. “What do you want to say?”
I’m way too aware of her body beneath mine.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I cover her mouth with mine, putting all those unspoken words into that kiss. All the words I shouldn’t or can’t say. Pull back, balance myself on my elbows, and slowly pull in and out of her, my gray eyes meeting hers.
Powerful.
Intoxicating.
Exciting.
So intense that when we come, together, at the same damn time, Violet’s low, pleading moans match mine.
Sebastian was right about one thing: the more time I spend with Violet, the deeper I fall, the more I lose my grip on reality.
Zeke
“You wanted to see me, Coach?”
I give the doorjamb of his office a few short raps with my knuckles.
“Daniels, take a seat.”
I enter the office, walking the few short steps to a chair, settling myself there. Spread my legs to get comfortable. Adjust the brim of my Iowa baseball cap.
“So.” Coach leans back in his seat, steepling his fingers and leaning back to study me. “Tell me how it’s been going.”
My lips press together, my knee-jerk reaction to mumble something evasive. But then, “It’s been good.”
He stares me down, letting silence fill the room—something I’ve seen him do to guys a million times before. He’s like a detective, using the tactic to pry information out of people, hoping they’ll want to fill the silence by talking.
It works on most people. But me?
I am not most people.
“Yeah, I’d heard that. Quite honestly, I’m surprised.”
I raise my brows.
Coach leans back farther in his chair until the wooden legs creak so loud I’m actually afraid the damn chair is going to snap in half. Neither one of us wants to relent, but he’s the one who called me in here.
“Tell me more about your Little Brother, Kris.”
“Kyle.”
“Kyle then. Tell me more about him.”
The question gives me pause, and I discover I actually know the answer. I surprise us both when I say, “He is…a really quick, uh, learner. He loves sports but his family doesn’t have a lot of money so he can’t play at school. So, uh, I’ve been taking him and we’ve been brushing up on his basketball skills.”
“Basketball?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why not wrestling?”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t really want to push him into anything he doesn’t seem interested in.” I clear my throat. “He, uh…” Jesus this is awkward. I’m singing like a damn canary. “We do his homework. He’s a real freak about his grades.”
Coach stares blankly, unimpressed by my choice of words.
“What I meant to say is, he’s very vigilant about his grades. He starts middle school next year and wants to stay on top of things, especially math.”
“You’ve been helping him with his homework?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods his approval.
Picks up a pencil, taps his desk a few times before tossing it aside. “Tell me about your girlfriend. She seems like a nice girl.”
Girlfriend.
I have a suspicion he used that particular word on purpose, to get a reaction out of me.
Stiffly, I nod.
“Violet? We’re just friends.”
Friends who have slow-burning sex and spend a shit load of time together, sometimes doing nothing but lying around holding hands.
Yeah. Those kinds of friends.
“Does she know that?”
“Yeah she knows that.”
“Do you?”
My lips press in a straight line when Coach’s eyes roam my face.
“Why are you just friends?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why are you just friends. Why isn’t she your girlfriend? And don’t give me the same bullshit excuse everyone else gives about time and practice. What’s the real reason she’s not your girlfriend?”
“Sir, with all due respect, is that the reason you called me in here? I don’t see how this is any of your business.”
He laughs, the old fuck, chuckling and coughing while I scowl. “It’s my business because your personal life affects the team. When you’re happy, your performance is better, dipshit.”
Is it?
“You’ve been a real prick in the past, but since the fundraiser and those kids and that girl…” He pushes a paperweight to the corner of his desk. “I’ll admit you’ve been easier to handle.”
I consider this; I guess it’s true I haven’t gotten into any arguments with anyone on the team since I started the Big Brothers program.
“Son, I’m going to ask you another personal question. You don’t have to answer, but I want you to give my words some real consideration. Will you do that for me?”
What can I do but nod? I’m his captive audience.
He steeples his fingers again, resting his pointy, wrinkled elbows on the desk and leaning forward.
“Now, I don’t want to sound preachy, but that little gal you’re spending time with has had a difficult life. Anyone can see that. She worked tremendously hard to get to where she’s at with all the hurdles she had to face.”
How the fuck does he know all this?
“The last thing she needs is someone with a chip on his shoulder fucking it all up.” Coach coughs into his closed fist. “I’m not telling you to break up with her, but I do want to tell you this: share your burdens with her, but don’t weigh her down with them. I know you have a lot of anger because of your folks, but Zeke, you’re a grown man. It’s time to let that shit go.
“More importantly”—his beady blue eyes pin me to the chair—“maybe it’s time to relieve someone else of their burdens instead of worrying so much about your own.”
I can’t believe all the sensitive bullshit coming out of Coach’s mouth; this is a man I’ve seen reduce grown men to tears, and now he’s doling our relationship advice like he’s…like he’s fucking Dr. Phil.
“Give it some thought,” he concludes. “And close the door on your way out.”
“Hey Zeke.” Rex Gunderson, our team manager, nudges me in the arm with his boney elbow. I don’t even know why the hell I let him and Oz follow me to the library tonight—neither of them ever shuts up long enough to let anyone study. “Isn’t that your tutor?”
Gunderson’s nasally voice breaks through my concentration, snakes through my cerebellum with alarming speed, and has me jerking my head up. Scanning the perimeter of the library. Skimming over the entrance. Glancing toward the back stacks, to the circulations desk.
Finding Violet.