Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,12

a white board. Tattoos cover her fingers and the underside of her left forearm, and a silver hoop protrudes from her septum. She looks like she doesn’t give a fuck about a damn thing (besides anthropology, I guess).

I blaze through the multiple-choice questions as fast as I can. I’ve always read it’s best to go with your gut instinct on those rather than re-read and second guess and talk yourself out of your original answers.

I move onto the essay questions next, which are easier than I anticipated, most of them requiring nothing more than a few sentences at most.

When I get to the last one, I laugh to myself. Irie was right. Longmire didn’t ask us about what it means to be a human. He probably didn’t want to read through a hundred-plus psychobabble bullshit answers, and I don’t blame him. I’m sure he’d much rather be catching waves.

Irie is one of the first to turn in her quiz. I scribble my final sentence and make my way to the front of the room, passing her table. She doesn’t notice me. Or she pretends not to.

As soon as the final quiz has been submitted, the TA rehashes the week’s lessons and dives deeper into biological anthropology, which conveniently happens to be her focus of study. My attention waxes and wanes and veers toward Irie. Or, rather, the back of her head—her shiny, glossy strands ironed straight and curtaining down to the middle of her back. She’s facing forward, jotting down notes in her rose gold notebook while everyone around her is clacking away on MacBook keyboards.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, not once or twice, but three times, and I slide it halfway out to check my texts.

There’s a party Saturday night.

At the Westbrook house—the twelve-bedroom three-story on Villanueva full of frat boy rejects—guys who partied too hard to stay in their fraternity’s good graces.

Apparently my presence has been requested.

And requested.

And requested …

Exhaling, I slide my phone back and ignore the series of vibrations that follow.

“Okay. I’m going to let you guys out a little early today,” the TA says. Within milliseconds the group collects their things in one giant tandem effort.

Fucking freshmen.

Irie takes her time though. Shockingly, she doesn’t have a plane to catch this time. I wonder if she’s done with classes for the day—like me. In a perfect world, we’d be shooting the shit together all afternoon—preferably between the sheets … or on the kitchen counter … or in the back of an empty classroom if we’re feeling particularly frisky.

Someday.

Someday soon …

Rising, I shift my bag over my shoulder and head to her table, but she’s oblivious as she heads out.

I manage to catch up to her halfway down the hall.

“Irie, wait up,” I place my hand on her shoulder to stop her.

She spins around, peering up at me through a fringe of dark lashes. “Hi.”

I want to ask her about last night—make sure we’re still cool. But before I get a chance to say anything, I’m shoulder-checked by Vin Chalmers, a second-string running back who legitimately believes he’s God’s gift to football.

Some people fake it ‘til they make it.

And some of us don’t have to.

“Tal, you going to Westbrook Saturday?” he asks, lifting his meaty hand to give me a low five. “It’s going to be lit. A bunch of A-Chi-O girls are going to be there.”

He traces his tongue along his square teeth and flashes a confident grin in an unnatural shade of ice-white.

I turn to Irie—or where she was—and find an empty space.

A void.

Peering across the packed hallway, I find her already yards away, completely out of reach in every way.

“So you in or not?” he asks.

Westbrook parties are notoriously and historically epic. Would I rather be spending my Saturday night showing Irie Davenport the time of her life? Of-fucking-course I would. But seeing as how that’s not an option yet, I don’t see any harm in having myself a good time.

“Yeah, man,” I say. “I’m in.”

“Oh my gawd, Talon Gold!” A girl with comically huge everything—tits, teeth, ass—trots toward me, her bony arms extended. “I haven’t seen you foreverrrr! How the hell are you?”

She wraps me in a strawberry-mint scented embrace and squeezes me like a life preserver in a typhoon, bouncing and rubbing her body against every part of me.

Fuck if I can remember her name.

Pretty sure she blew me in a bathroom at a house party sophomore year, but that was lightyears ago. If I recall correctly, she threw a fit