Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,6
as close as I’ll ever get to letting him have his way with me.
Just as he has his reasons for wanting me, I have my reasons for not wanting him …
… and my reasons are rooted deeper than he could possibly begin to understand.
Chapter 4
Talon
“Irie, hey.” I rise from my seat in the back of the auditorium Wednesday morning, making a show of waving her down and getting her attention though we’ve yet to make eye contact.
Everyone around us stares—at me and at her. Some cruel. Some curious.
The heat is on. She can’t keep acting like she doesn’t see my little production.
“Irie, over here,” I say, hands cupped around my mouth.
She finally glances up, gives the smallest of nods to acknowledge me, and then heads my way.
“Saved you a seat,” I say when she gets closer. “Figured we should sit together again. You know, since we’re partners or whatever.”
I offer her a wink, like we have some kind of inside joke now, but I get crickets.
Irie lets her messenger bag slide off her shoulder before taking the chair to my left. She smells cotton candy sweet with a touch of vanilla and her nails are painted a different color today—the palest of pink. The gold studs in her ears from the other day have also been replaced, this time with oversized tortoiseshell hoops.
I don’t know why I notice these things about her. If it were any other girl, I couldn’t care less. But with Irie, it’s like I’m always trying to see what I can glean from all her little quirks and details.
Over the years, I’ve watched her style morph from semester to semester. I’ve watched her hair change from platinum to brunette to her natural caramel blonde and back. I’ve watched as she’s drifted from one circle of friends to another—spending her time with economics nerds and English majors one year to the artsy-fartsy designer wannabes the next.
Sometimes I think she knows exactly who she is.
Other times I think she hasn’t got a clue.
She might be surprised to know she isn’t alone in that.
Some of us are just better at hiding it.
“You get my email?” I ask, referring to the one I sent on a whim Monday night. It was a desperate move and I fully own that, but after seeing her that morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she smelled like and how her eyes almost smiled every time she looked at me even if her lips were not. I couldn’t stop obsessing over seeing her again … and I let my impatience get the best of me.
The instant I sent the damn thing I cringed—physically cringed.
I don’t know what it is about her that throws me off my game every damn time.
And who the fuck uses terms like “touch base?”
“Yep,” she says, hunched down as she retrieves her notebook and pen. Everyone else around us has their laptops out, prepped and ready to take notes when class starts in a few minutes, except us.
“Good deal.” I tap my pen against my notebook, remembering I still have her hot pink one in my bag. I forgot to give it back last time but in my defense, she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
Professor Longmire flicks the lights off down in front, turning the auditorium dark except for the glow of the projector screen.
It makes me think of being at the movies, which then makes me think about the fact that I can’t remember the last time I took a girl on an actual date. There was this one chick freshman year … took her to dinner and a movie on Friday night … and by the time Monday rolled around she’d all but broadcasted to the entire school that we were dating—as in boyfriend/girlfriend.
Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat.
She made it as official as she possibly could, hashtagging the hell out of my name in every combination she could think of as well as posting a selfie she took of the two of us when I wasn’t looking.
Fucking. Psycho.
I swore off dating after that and decided to focus solely on football with a side of academics.
A week later Irie Davenport walked into my life, and she’s been dancing circles around my mind ever since.
Professor Longmire drones on about some ancient civilization down below. Irie scribbles notes as fast as she can, pausing every so often to chew on the cap of her pen. She looks