Yannik
I was never into chainsmokers with a big fat ego, or football captains with zero personality and too much of mommy's money, or self-centered, stupid boys who think they own the world.
I'm just not into guys.
Not that I don't like them.
I do love men, but on a certain level.
On the level of my lips. Both of them.
I just like guys on a physical level, like when it's time to touch myself thinking about them. Or when their lips build my way to higher self-esteem and her defeat.
Yeah, I definitely do love men. Just not in the regular sense.
The football field looks crowded by the end of the week. It's definitely not the place I want to be on a Friday after school, but TJ and Sam said they needed to stay for a "quick" tryoutâwhich means I'm stuck here for at least the next hour.
No wonder they're doing tryouts nowâalmost half the team vanished after graduation, and now Cormac and Coach Beckett are going nuts trying to figure things out.
"And what are you doing here?" Coach Beckett sounds desperate, like he's on the verge of a breakdown in the middle of the field when he spots me heading to the stands.
"Well, hello to you, too." I can't help but roll my eyes, my sarcastic response slipping out before I can stop it.
Beckett seems to have better things to do than argue with a student, so he lets out a long, frustrated grunt before turning his attention back to Cormac.
I catch Cormac gazing at me with a playful look on his face, and he doesn't let the moment slide without winking at me while being instructed by a desperate Beckett.
I leave my bag on the tribune seat but don't rush to sit down. Instead, I scan the field, trying to spot TJ and Samuel somewhere among the football players.
Shit, they all look the same, and I still have no idea what numbers each of them wear.
Standing with my hands on my hips beside my auto-assigned spot near Beckett, I count the number of Wolves on the field again. If no one's still in the changing room, we're so fuâ "Sup, Enzo."
No emotion crosses my face as I glance at Enzo, who's been staring at me for way too long. He nods back, and his silence feels weirdâI've always known him as the ever-happy guy I've shared a blunt with a couple of times.
I remember the last time, specificallyâme and Sam actually had to drag him home after he lost a bet and downed an entire tequila bottle.
I follow his gaze, and suddenly, the day turns interesting when I spot the locker assaulter just yards away. He notices me, too, because his face shifts from focused on adjusting his protective gear to surprised and confused in a matter of seconds.
Now that I see him again, I can't stop myself from imagining it. Himâtall and big, big enough to grab me with one hand, his mind singularly focused, drilling into itself again and againâa kiss.
A kiss, passionate and desperate. The kind only boys like him can pull off. And, if he's lucky and catches me both ovulating and in a good mood, maybe my interest will last long enough to touch every inch of him.
Boys like him are... intriguing.
It's like opening a gift from someone who doesn't know you wellâyou don't know if it's the thing you've been dreaming of all year or some ratshit.
I wave at him with just the tips of my fingers, unable to suppress the wicked smile dancing at the corner of my mouth. TiagoâI remember his name because I spent the entire period after we met repeating it in my headâpresses his lips together, a scowl creasing his forehead, right before going back to studying the helmet Coach apparently handed him.
Dude just ignored me.
Oh, fuck him. He ain't that cute anyway.
"All right, folks, let's hit it!" Beckett shouts, nudging Cormac onto the field. "I don't have all day."
Beckett looks exhausted as he stands next to me, arms crossed over his chest, frowning like a teacher sick of dealing with daycare kids. Which, honestly, he kind of isâthe Wolves are just a bunch of big-ass kids.
"Rough day, huh?" I try to cheer him upâor at least I tell myself that's what I'm doing and not just rambling.
"Sometimes I hate my job," he mutters. I'm not sure if he wants me to hear it, so I act like I didn't, turning my head back to the field.
The best part of the tryouts is when Beckett sets up a game simulation once he has a smudged idea of who's going to play where. Looks like I'm here just in time to witness the Wolves' initiation ritual.
Although Beckett's constant comments feel like they're drilling into my brain, I don't think about leaving. My mind is too busy debating his thoughts.
I've only seen Tiago once before, and now we're apparently glued together since Mr. Dawson refuses to do his job. And here's Tiago againâignoring my greeting like he's some fucking playboy already sick of the attention he gets every day.
Now he's fully into the game, his dark hair messier than before as he pulls off his helmet, sitting on the bench and waiting for his turn. Even from here, I can see how red the apples of his cheeks are from all the running Beckett put him through.
"Good job, Goldman!" Beckett shouts. I'd lend him a megaphone if I had one, but it seems like he doesn't need itâthe man has a hell of a voice. He lowers his eyes to the clipboard in his hands, crossing out a name. "Better be quick... Oh, Jones, a good one. Jones, your turn!"
I lift my head at the mention of the surname. It sounds familiar but not enough to place immediately.
Jones, right. Santiago Jones. Damn, even his name sounds perfect.
Santiago Jones, number ninety-five.
He stands and places the mouthguard on his teeth before heading to the field.
My mind has a thousand ways to get what I want, and I know I'm going to get it because his eyes flicker to me brieflyâjust for a secondâbefore the helmet hides them, making it impossible to track his gaze.
Even though I can't see his pretty face anymore, my attention is caught by how huge he looks in his protective gear. The shoulder pads emphasize his hard muscles, and the butterflies tattooed on both his arms are the only pieces of tanned skin visible.
"This guy's a beast," Beckett comments.
"Oh, he sure is," I mumble without meaning to. My eyes track Tiago across the field, like a hunting dog chasing a rabbit. It doesn't immediately hit me that Beckett is now staring at me with the face he always makes when he smells gossip.
"Aren't you with Cooper?" he asks casually.
My lips curl into a snarl at the mere thought of dealing with Cormac yapping about football and making the most basic compliments on a daily basis.
Yuck.
"Hell no," my tongue responds before my brain can, and I'm grateful Beckett drops the subject and focuses back on the field.
The whistle blows too close to my ear, making me flinch, but I'm too invested in the game to complain. Specifically, in the guy wearing number one, who also happens to have a hell of an ass now that his back is facing me.
"Holy Christ!" Beckett cackles, and for once, I totally agree.
I finally understand why Beckett referred to Tiago as a beastâat the exact moment the ball he throws soars across the entire field.
I glance at Beckett, completely astonished.
"Did you see that?" His grin stretches wide, and it's the first time in the whole hour I'm actually interested in what he's saying. "He just transferred from West High. Getting their QB wasn't in my plans, but, oh Lord, I'm thrilled!"
No doubt this guy was a quarterbackâhe just hurled that ball straight to heaven.
The game resumes, and I take my chance to fish for more details about the guy I'm so eager to add to my glory list.
"Hey, quick question," I say, turning to Beckett. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs and my chin in my hands. "Do you know why he had to transfer?"
"Keep your sneaky nose out of other people's business," Beckett chuckles, easily seeing through my attempt at personal-use research.
I roll my eyes, but before I can retort, Beckett lets out a suppressed grumble.
My eyes dart back to the field, just in time to see the former QB of Beckett's wet dreams sprawled on the ground after TJ flattens him. TJ doesn't even bother to help him up as he jogs past.
"Need a break?" Beckett calls out to Tiago.
Rolling onto his side, Tiago bounces back to his feet almost immediately. He gives Coach a thumbs-up before continuing the tryouts.
A beast.
This time, I don't dare take my eyes off the field. I may hang out with half the football team, but I still don't know how the game works. One thing I do knowâno one on this team ever leaves a teammate lying on the ground.
Beckett grumbles and mutters like a baby as Tiago gets knocked down again. And again. And again.
By the end of the tryouts, I'm sure tattoos won't be the only thing decorating his skinâhe's taken enough hits to earn at least one massive bruise.
Beckett jots down notes on his clipboard as the game continues, while Tiago struggles more with every hit. It's clear the team is giving him a "warm welcome," but only Enzo bothers to help him up after one particularly hard tumble.
But then I see TJ shake his head at Enzo when he tries to approach, leaving Tiago behind. A hot, burning sensation fills my chest as the realization strikes me.
They're trying to sabotage his performance.
I glance at Beckett to see if he's noticed, but he's too busy crossing something off his clipboard.
"All right," he mutters, blowing the whistle hanging from his neck. "Good job, boys! Results come out Monday. Until then, please don't harass me by email..."
I spring to my feet and make a beeline for TJ. My quick walk turns into a jog, then a sprint. By the time TJ notices me, I'm already throwing my hands out, shoving him square in the chest.
"Fucking coward!"
The force of my shove, combined with the momentum of my sprint and the adrenaline coursing through me, sends TJ stumbling backward, struggling to regain his balance.
"Hold your horses, doll!" he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. But his defensive posture does nothing to cool the rush of aggression blazing inside me.
"You're an asshole, Acker!" I yell. TJ shushes me, trying to calm me down, as if that's ever worked. "Don't fucking shush me, youâ"
"Shut up. Just shut up," he interrupts, his voice low and desperate. There's an edge of pleading in it that makes me gather up the scraps of self-control I have left and bite my tongue.
"Listen," he continues, leaning closer. "I don't know when exactly you suddenly developed empathy, but this ain't your business. Don't make it worse. Hit it before Cooper sees us."
"What are you talking about?" I snap, but my eyes flicker to Tiago standing near the bleachers. He's still catching his breath, but his gaze is locked on me now, intense and unwavering.
He's smart enough to understand why I'm pissed. I bet his ego is currently doubling in size.
"You didn't tell me you and Cooper were a thing," TJ says, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder.
"Because we're not," I reply, rolling my eyes. He's the second person to bring this up today. "Jeez, why does everybody think that?"
I actually know the reasonâCormac and I got closer over the summer. Not close enough to put a label on it, though.
He knows I don't date. I know if I would, he'd be the last person I'd choose.
"Well, I'm not sure he's aware, because he's gone wild with the little man," TJ says. In my head, I laugh at TJ calling him "little man," because Tiago is anything but little. In real life, though, I stay pissed. "You know Cormac can be a dick sometimes," TJ adds.
Yeah, I know. But I thought his dickishness was reserved for people already on the team. Cormac has always been possessive, the type to think there's nothing his mom's money can't buy.
And it's the same now. He's got Beckett under his thumb because Mrs. Cooper bankrolls the team. Beckett has to do whatever Captain says.
And Captain Cooper says West High's quarterback isn't Wolves material.
"Why are you so pissed, anyway?" TJ asks, shifting the subject as he nudges me to follow him off the field. "Is Cooper right?"
"About what?" I ask, my eyes scanning the crowd, searching for number one.
"He said he caught you flirting with him."
Oh, because I was.
"Bullshit," I mutter instead.
"So why are you mad, then?" TJ presses.
I don't know. I've never been the type of girl who feels like helping others. People's problems have never been my concern.
But now? I'm furious to the point where I actually want to march over to Cormac and punch him in his face.
There's something about Tiago that makes ignoring Cormac's shit impossible. Maybe it's guiltâsome part of me feels responsible for him, thanks to that tutoring thing Mr. Dawson roped me into.
Or maybe, just maybe, I crave him to like me.
Because I'd kill for the chance to have his pretty name on my list.