Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,46

we were fully clothed.

I find Irie in the kitchen, along with two of my roommates who are perched on counter stools waiting for their breakfast like a couple of begging mutts.

“No, they never should have traded Voxley,” Irie says, standing over a pan of sizzling bacon in nothing but one of my jersey-thin t-shirts. “And I say that as a retired Chiefs fan.”

“Wrong,” Carter shoots back. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Voxley’s been worthless ever since he tore his ACL two seasons ago. Never been the same. Dude needs to hang it up.”

“What?” She turns to shoot him a dirty look. “He scored more touchdowns last season than he did in the two seasons before that combined.”

“Look who’s up,” Rylan interrupts their argument when he sees me. “Morning, angel face. Sleep well?”

He’s wearing a shit-eating grin and I’m positive he thinks I fucked Irie last night, but it’s none of his fucking business so whatever.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell Irie as she plates a few slices of bacon. I slip my hands around her waist from behind, leaning down to kiss her neck. “These guys might talk football like morons, but they’re perfectly capable of making their own breakfast.”

She smiles. “It’s fine. I was up. And I was starving. Rylan’s the one who went the store to get everything.”

“Jesus. What time is it?” I check the clock on the microwave. It’s half past nine. I don’t remember the last time I slept in this late, but I must have needed it. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I slept this hard. Something about having Irie beside me, lying in my arms, put me out like a light last night, despite the freight train of thoughts clouding my head.

Ever since the conversation we had over the display case at my mom’s house yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about what I said.

I mean, I’ve felt that way for years … but saying it out loud made it real.

Irie casually tried to bring it up last night between episodes of Jane the Virgin or whatever the hell she had us watching, but I brushed it off every time.

I’m not ready to talk about it.

Talking about it means making a decision—a decision I’ve been avoiding for weeks now.

I still haven’t signed the Richmond contract.

And honestly … I don’t know that I will.

Chapter 25

Irie

“A lot of girls hate you right now.”

I peer across the table in my lighting class Monday morning and find a girl who’s never said more than three words to me all semester.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“You’re dating Talon Gold, right?” she asks. “A lot of girls hate you. That, or they want to be you. You’re pretty much the most infamous name on campus right now. I think someone even started a hashtag about you.”

I roll my eyes and attempt to ignore the girls at the table behind us, listening intently to our conversation.

“What’s your secret?” she asks. “How’d you get the one guy no one’s ever been able to get?”

Without hesitation, I say, “He has a type.”

“Which is?” She lifts a micro-bladed eyebrow, chewing on the end of her pencil with pillow-sized Kylie Jenner lips.

“He likes girls with tact,” I say. “I think he also has a thing for basic human decency. Oh, and self-respect. He’s pretty into that.”

She wrinkles her perfect nose and scoffs before turning away, and I angle myself to hide the humor trying to display itself across my lips. Maybe I came off a little harsh, but I know what she was saying underneath all of those questions.

She thinks he can do better than me.

She thinks he’d be better suited for someone like her.

I had “friends” like that back in high school—ones who’d make underhanded remarks disguised as innocent questions—and I ate them for breakfast.

Our professor excuses himself to take a phone call, and I use it as a chance to check my messages.

Sure enough, Talon texted me within the last twenty minutes.

TALON: My place tonight … seven.

I fire off a quick “if you insist” along with a winking emoji and put my phone away.

My stomach is a cage of frenzied butterflies and my head is all kinds of distracted and my lips burn in anticipation of seeing him again. We’ve been “dating” almost a month now and this still happens every time I think about him.

Every. Damn. Time.

He wasn’t wrong when he said we could have fun together, but every part of me knows that come May, things are going