Secret Obsession: Chapter 23

I lied. I only have one class on Monday. My Tuesday and Thursday schedule is a bit busier—three classes—but I’d also be lying if I said my schedule was difficult by any stretch of the imagination.

I follow the path Willow took, albeit at a much slower pace. I pass the classroom she’s in, making sure to spot her. I love that she’s wearing the shirt and jeans I picked out, and she didn’t even comment on them. I should’ve checked about her panties—but since I hid them, I’m pretty confident she’s not wearing anything else. And her nipples made their appearance through her shirt, visible through her gaping-open jacket, verifying that she didn’t try to sneak on a bra. Which, again, would’ve been possible if I hadn’t hidden them.

Now, she’s got her jacket zipped up and protecting those perky breasts from view. There’s a little berth around her, which satisfies me somewhat. It’s not like I set out to start rumors about her.

My brother made it easy, however. He didn’t deny when I told Erik and Amanda over winter break that Willow broke up with him. I may have fed them some line about how devastated Knox was over it and that I hoped his game didn’t worsen due to his heartache.

Knox eats that shit up. He’s the definition of an attention-whore.

Not Willow.

I still can’t really fathom how she developed feelings for the asshole.

Downstairs is one of the other, lesser-used dining options. It’s quieter and more of a grab-and-pay type of place. As opposed to the dining hall, where you just swipe to enter, then eat as much as your stomach can handle.

“Hi, Miles!” a girl calls.

I ignore it.

The amount of people who want to get all up in my business sometimes verges on uncomfortable. When I’m alone, I pretend I can’t hear them. It’s rare that anyone forces their attention on me—like jumping in front of me or whatever. Only desperate girls try it, and while they’re harder to merely brush off, they’re also easier to trick.

Hey, baby, I’d love to chat—but I’m late to meet my brother.

Oh, Knox? *bats eyelashes like a fucking fan* Good luck in the game next…

Total bullshit, most of the time.

I grab two breakfast sandwiches, two coffees, and add in a protein bar on top of my pile. I pay and settle at a table to wait, slowly eating one of the sandwiches. I open my phone and scroll through it.

“Hey.” Greyson slides into the seat across from me.

I set my phone down. “What’s up?”

He drops Willow’s phone on the table between us. “Figured you might want that.”

I smile. “Yeah. I’ve never met a girl who gives less of a shit about her phone.”

Greyson glares at something over my shoulder. “Is there a reason you’ve got a group of angry football assholes staring at you?”

I crane around.

Sure enough, Ronan Pierce—the prick who was giving Willow drinks the other night—is glowering at me. He has a matching black eye, and already I can imagine the rumors that’ll start up. Who will connect Willow between us?

A lot of people, knowing this fucking school. The three of us with bruises? Suspicious.

I sigh. “May as well face this head-on.”

Greyson shakes his head, but he follows me across the room to the football table. There are four of them, and they all look like they want to hit me.

They should just get in line.

“Pierce,” I greet him. I keep my voice even.

“Whiteshaw,” he replies. His eyes are full of anger.

I mean, I did sucker punch him in front of his own apartment. I’d be pissed, too.

“Willow’s my girlfriend,” I inform him. “So back the fuck off.”

Pierce sneers. “Yeah? Does she know that?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Greyson mutters.

“He’s funny,” I comment to my friend. “So fucking funny with that black eye. Do you want to know what he looked like right after I punched him in the face?”

“I’d love to,” Greyson deadpans.

So I do what I definitely shouldn’t.

I wind up and punch that fucker in the face. Again.

Really. He should expect this by now. But instead, the force knocks him off his chair and to the floor. He jumps to his feet and dives at me, and I relish the bite of his knuckles against my jaw. He tackles me with the force of a linebacker. I hit the floor hard, the wind knocked from my lungs.

I manage to block his punch to my face, but I get another to my ribs. He’s on top of me and raining down hits, and the pain wakes me the fuck up. With a roar, I throw him off me and into the table next to us. He crashes into it, tipping it over.

A quick glance in Greyson’s direction shows that he’s somehow keeping the rest of Pierce’s friends away from our fight.

“What is the meaning of this?” someone roars.

Pierce staggers to his feet. He’s got blood dripping from a split lip, and his eyes are wild. Greyson shoves someone back, then grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.

My ribs hurt, my face kind of hurts. I think my nose is bleeding again.

We face the football coach. He’s one of those small-but-mighty assholes who will hold their own against guys twice his size. He’s got his players pinned with a look, and Greyson and I both inch backward.

“Stay,” he barks at us.

Great.

He strides right up and gets in our faces. Coach Roake would freak the fuck out if we did anything to jeopardize our spots, so Greyson and I remain still. And calm, although I’m seething on the inside.

“Get your shit and come with me. All of you.” He points to the football players and us, then heads to the exit.

I grab my shit, tossing my coffee and holding on to the second one. The second sandwich goes in my bag, along with the protein bar. Greyson and I follow him toward the student center. He must have an office near the gymnasium, like the rest of the athletic department—with the exception of our coach. His office is at the stadium, far away from the rest of the bullshit.

That’s how he describes it anyway.

Maybe the football coach gives ours a heads-up, because Roake is waiting in the hall when we arrive.

When he sees Greyson and me, his eyebrows shoot up. He doesn’t say a damn word until the eight of us are in the office.

“Explain,” the football coach barks. He points to Pierce. “Starting with you.”

Ronan’s jaw tics. “Just a friendly little tussle, sir.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” one of his friends pipes up. “Devereux and Whiteshaw were just helping us settle a debate.”

I exchange a glance with Greyson.

Their coach points again, this time down at his desk. “You are all on fucking thin ice after the last time—” He cuts himself off abruptly and looks at Roake. “Unfortunately, I can’t say this sort of stunt is out of the ordinary for my boys.”

Roake turns his glare on us. “Do you two have anything to add?”

Just that we’re damn lucky sports are worshipped at this fucking school.

I shake my head, and so does Greyson. Quick, silent.

“Get out of our sight,” the football coach yells.

Ronan is the first to move. He yanks the door open and slips out, followed by his three friends. Greyson and I hurry after them, and I take a sip of the coffee before I forget it’s exactly how I don’t like it. I wrinkle my nose.

“Thanks,” Greyson says to one of the guys.

He shrugs. “Maybe pick a spot off campus next time you hockey assholes want to start a brawl.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I growl.

Ronan laughs and elbows one of his friends. “Chase is gonna get a kick out of this.”

Greyson rolls his eyes. But once we’re around the corner and away from the athletic offices, he draws to a halt and holds out his hand.

Ronan eyes him, then shakes it.

Ugh.

We slap hands next, our fingers wrapping around each other and squeezing hard. He drags me a step closer. “So, Willow’s off-limits, hmm?”

I squeeze until I feel the bones of his hand grind together, then jerk out of his grasp. He just smirks at me, his eyebrow raised. Waiting for a reply? He’s not going to get one.

Greyson hooks his arm around my shoulders and steers me in the opposite direction of them. We take a different staircase down, and he follows me back across campus.

“Do you have nothing better to do than babysit me?” I snap.

He shrugs. “You seem like a bomb about to detonate, so… nope, I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment.”

I grunt and take another sip of the coffee. It’s actually not so bad. Just a weird flavor. Coffee should taste like coffee, not sugar. But it isn’t hot anymore. At best, it’s lukewarm.

Fucking hell.

I drop it into the trash and go back to get another one. Greyson follows silently, and I’m glad he’s not making me talk. Because what would we even say? That I have an insane obsession? That I’m driving myself crazy over it?

Coffee paid for, I take the stairs up just as the classroom doors start opening. Greyson’s my shadow as I spot Willow and walk faster to reach her. I bump her shoulder, and she almost jumps a foot.

“Miles,” she exhales. “I don’t have time for whatever you want. I need caffeine—”

“In the form of coffee?” I hand her the cup.

She stops walking. Her fingers curl around the cup automatically, so at least she’s not going to drop it. But fuck, she’s staring at it like she would never expect someone to do something halfway nice to her. Or for her.

For her. Yeah.

She takes a sip, and her eyes close. Her shoulders sag.

The satisfaction in my chest makes the extra trip, the fight, all of it worth it. I grab the breakfast sandwich from my bag and push that into her free hand. Fuck it, right? That’s why I bought it.

And then we’re moving again.

I glance back, but Greyson is gone.

“Why is your nose bleeding?”

I touch it, not surprised to find wet blood still there. I didn’t really even wipe it, but now I do. My whole body aches as the adrenaline ebbs from my system.

“Don’t worry about it.” I pull out her phone and hand it to her. “Missing this?”

She smiles slightly and plucks it from my grasp, checking the locked screen. “Aw, Violet charged it for me.”

“How sweet.” My tone is dry. “Keep it on you, would you?”

She makes a face and stops again. At this rate, she’ll be late for her next class. “I know I’m a computer science major, and my whole life is going to be about technology. I mean, I guess my whole world already is about technology. But it’s exhausting. I don’t want to be chained to a phone and a slave to notifications. I don’t want to be available whenever anyone comes calling.”

I digest that.

In a strange way, it makes sense.

There’s so much information coming at us from our phones all the damn time. I can see why she’d want to disconnect—and sometimes the only way to do that is by force.

“This is me,” she says, stopping outside another classroom.

“What class is it?”

“You don’t have my schedule memorized?”

I hide my smile. “Of course I do. I know when you need to be places… but forgive me if your class names get a little jumbled.”

“Well, for your information, this is Computational Linguistics 101. It’s an elective. See you… later, I guess.” She steps into the room, leaving me alone in the hall.

Not alone-alone. The hallway is full of students moving between classes.

But… alone enough that I want to follow her.