Текст книги "The End Game"

Автор книги: Kate McCarthy

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Jordan

Paige comes at me hard, putting on the pressure and forcing me to make a move. With half an hour left in our Thursday afternoon training session, Coach has split the team in half and set us loose in a short scrimmage. Our team captain is taking scrimmage seriously. Off the field, Paige is funny and likeable. On the field she’s a goddamn ninja. Before you can blink she’s in your face, her eyes narrowed in a murderous glare—like the ball’s her baby and you’re a homicidal kidnapper. It’s intentionally off-putting, but I just grin at her as I dribble the ball toward the goal, cocky and confident on the field. I was born with a soccer ball at my feet. I grew up with my brother and his friends coming at me, trying to steal it away in our backyard games. Nothing Paige can ever do will put me off.

My ankle is strapped and Ibuprofen is busy taking care of the pain as I tap the soccer ball with the instep of my right foot, feinting left. It’s a classic move, but it’s one Paige anticipates. So when I actually go right, she comes with me like a buzzing mosquito out for blood.

Knowing I need to find empty space, I stop the ball with my boot before passing it backwards. Leah’s wide open and takes possession with ease. I signal her behind my back, indicating wide left is where I want it. With Paige having no choice but go hard at Leah, I run for open space.

Leah puts her boot behind the ball and punts it up the field. It flies up and over, landing a few meters ahead of me with perfect precision. I run straight into the bounce, using my knee to gain control before kicking off with my left boot to keep it moving. An opposing midfielder comes at me and I pass the ball, running forward to find more space. It’s passed back with a smooth roll, and I draw back my boot, sending it sailing. It screams passed the goalie and slams into the back corner pocket of the net.

“Whoooooooop! Elliott!” Leah shrieks. A body crashes into my back, and we go down in a flailing pile of limbs.

“Get off me!” I yell when more bodies land above me, crushing me into the ground. My voice is a muffled shriek thanks to the forearm wedged in front of my mouth. I’m tempted to bite it, but it’s the only thing between me and a face full of dirt.

Eventually I’m freed and flop onto my back, the late sun still packing enough heat to leave me gasping. I suck in a few deep breaths of air, ignoring the screaming twinge in my left ankle while everyone else regains their feet. It hurts more than it should, but I can’t afford to rest it.

The piercing squawk of a whistle cuts through laughs and team banter. I lift my head. Our assistant coach is waving us over. Paige stands above me, blocking the setting sun. She holds out a hand and I take it, letting her haul me to my feet. I get a hard slap on the back that makes me stumble forward.

“I’ll get you next time, Elliott.”

“You’ll have better luck catching a bullet with your teeth,” I retort.

“Har, har,” she replies, slinging an arm around my shoulder and jostling me as we walk off the field. I grimace, ducking my head as slivers of pain shoot up my leg. “You Aussies are so full of shit.”

Leah comes up on my left, and Paige cranes her neck to look at her. They share a meaningful glance, something I’m not privy to but get the feeling I’m about to be.

“So.” Paige’s gaze returns to me. “There’s a little something Leah and I need to know.”

“Oh?” I raise a questioning brow, but I have a good idea what’s coming and brace accordingly. “Need to know or want to know?”

“Need to know, of course,” Leah replies for the both of them.

Paige sniggers and while I’m rolling my eyes, she clears her throat pointedly. “We all know Brody Madden is a prime piece of real estate, right?”

Her logic is flawless. Every single inch of Brody is prime. I’m trying really hard not to notice. Actually that’s a lie. I don’t think I’m even trying. He keeps giving me glimpses of the man underneath the brash exterior, and it’s reeling me in like a hooked fish.

My response is a sigh. That’s all I’ve got.

Paige continues. “Well what we want to know is—”

“Need,” Leah interjects. “Need to know.”

“Right. What we need to know,” Paige corrects, “is just how prime he really is.”

“How prime?” I reply, my eyebrows high. “Really? That’s what you both need to know?”

“Stop holding out on us.” Paige grabs her crotch in an obscene gesture as we reach the edge of the field, joining the huddle of our teammates. “The junk, Jordan,” she says bluntly. “How prime is it?”

They break out in laughter and our assistant coach shoots us a glare.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter to Paige, because she’s the one making the most noise.

“She already has,” Leah replies, now in the throws of a choking fit.

“Oh good lord,” I mutter.

Coach Kerr blows her whistle. The ear splitting peal slices through the afternoon air and silence reigns instantly. When she pulls it from her lips, her nostrils are flared. “That was sloppy play! You need to sharpen up,” she snaps, chopping her hand against her open palm to emphasize her point. “Jordan scored that last goal because you had unmarked players. Unmarked players!” Coach is frustrated because it’s the one point where our team is falling down. “Mark. Your. Player. I want you on your opposing mark like a fly on shit. Don’t leave them open to score goals. Don’t let them breathe without you in their face. Make them work for it. Make them run hard. Wear them down while trying to find that goddamn empty space. They’ll make mistakes, and that’s when you strike.”

A collective expression of shame sweeps across our tired, sweaty faces.

“If you want a soccer career outside of college, you need to remember that every game counts. Every training session counts. Every pass of the ball counts. Every step you take on that field,” she points directly behind us, “counts.”

Coach Kerr is right. There’s no room for slacking off. I’ve left Nicky behind for this. It’s made me selfish, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Training is a priority. Games. Everything else has to fit in around it. Life, people, family, friends. They fall by the wayside in the push to the top. Being the best comes with sacrifice, but if you can live with giving up everything but the game, you’re in with a fighting chance.

“Breathe it,” Coach demands. “Sleep it. Dream it. Eat it. And yes, shit it. Tomorrow night is game night. Let’s show them that we are the team to beat.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes sweeping over her team with fire in her eyes. “Now get back out there. I want you running extra laps tonight.”

My stomach sinks. My ankle throbs. It’s taped up beneath the thick, knee-high socks we wear, but it’s swelling and needs elevation, not further punishment.

“How many?” Leah dares to ask.

“Until you either vomit or your legs give out.”

We’re dismissed and run out en masse to begin our laps. No one speaks. We’re too exhausted. Our energy stores are depleted and there’s nothing extra to give. I run the laps but my mind is begging and pleading for me to stop each time my left foot jolts into the ground. I run until the twinge in my ankle morphs into screaming pain. I run until I have nothing left.

When I’m home and showered, I burrow into my bed. Ibuprofen is now my best friend and I partake liberally. Rest tonight and tomorrow and I’ll be playing in Friday’s game. It just means keeping Leah in the dark. My ankle hasn’t healed like it should’ve by now, and if she finds out she’ll pitch an unholy tantrum.

Ten minutes later, after excessive banging of pots and pans, she’s rapping on my closed door. It’s her turn to cook, and my stomach is a growly lion because I didn’t have time for lunch.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Leah,” I call out, my voice groggy as I roll over. I stifle a groan when my ankle shrieks in protest.

The door clicks open and I burrow in further.

“Just ten more minutes,” I promise from beneath the safe haven of my sheets.

“Ten more minutes?” comes the distinctly amused male voice. “Just what are you doing under there? And can I join in?”

My heart is an instant jackhammer despite having done nothing but lie in bed. Oh no. No, no, no. That needs to stop. The little hitch in my breath? The screaming butterflies that tickle my stomach? Just … no.

The bed dips beside me. The sudden heavy weight on the mattress forces my body to roll sideways toward it. Damn you, gravity.

“I was sleeping,” I finally manage to mutter as I furtively check my watch. I haven’t been in bed ten minutes. The pain meds had me knocked out for an entire hour.

“Are you sure? I need proof.” My sheets are ripped away unceremoniously.

“Hey!” I cry out.

Bright light hits me, revealing Brody perched on the edge of my bed. He’s wearing sweatpants, a snug college tee shirt, and a teasing smile. His body is angled toward me, one hand planted flat on the bed near my left hip. My pulse thumps as I stare at it, mesmerized. Is there nothing sexier than football hands? I think not. His are big and tanned, boasting thick veins that pop over wide knuckles and trail up along the land of hopes and sexy dreams. Blinking, I drag my eyes upwards from thick muscled forearms.

Brody’s watching me, his teasing smile morphing into heat and mischief. He cocks his head, dark brown eyes pinning me to the bed. He looks like the Big Bad Wolf, the kind of guy my brother always warned me away from.

I scrub a hand over my face in a vain attempt to restore semblance to my chaotic insides. It doesn’t work. I can’t pull myself together when he’s looking at me like that. “Let me just go wash my face and we can start the tute. I need to wake up a little.”

I go to move but Brody takes up a lot of room. His frame dwarfs my tiny bed. I pause and give him a look that says please move.

He grins unapologetically.

“Can you move?”

Having to force those words past my lips is not a good thing.

Thankfully Brody stands, backing away a little with his palms up. He jerks his head at the bedroom door. “So go.”

I quickly swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “Sonofab—” I suck in a sharp breath.

His teasing smile is gone in an instant, replaced with an expression of concern. “What the hell, Jordan?”

My stomach rolls and I can’t hide the grimace.

“Your ankle?” he asks.

Not pausing for an answer, Brody slides one of those delicious hands down the bared length of my left leg. His palm scrapes smooth skin, and I can’t fight the shiver. My body erupts in goose bumps when he reaches the swollen joint, encasing it with his fingers.

He presses down around the injured area. “How does that feel?”

I grit my teeth, a light sweat breaking across my brow. “Hurts.”

“Dammit, Jordan.” He fixes me with a scowl. It does nothing to lessen the ache pulsing between my legs. “You trained this afternoon on a rolled ankle? I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“Of course I trained,” I snap. “You think I want to miss a game? Coach would bench me with an injury like this.”

“You deserve to get benched for doing something so …”

“So, what? Stupid?”

His lips press flat. “I hate that word.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, shamed at my insensitivity. “I won’t use it anymore.”

Brody takes one of the pillows from behind me. Lifting my leg gently, he places it beneath my left foot. He sets my leg back down with care, but it still tears a pained moan from my throat. “You’re a liability to your team playing with an injured ankle, Jordan.”

I let out a frustrated huff. “What, like you’ve never done it?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Anger radiates from Brody’s dark eyes as he stands, his jaw ticking. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve trained with injuries? How many games I’ve played with cracked ribs, strains, sprains, and concussions? I know what it means to be benched. There’s always another player there itching to take your place, prove their worth, prove they’re better than you.”

“Then why are you so angry I trained with mine?”

“Because you have a choice. I don’t!” His voice rises like thunder until it vibrates right through me, making me shake. “Football is all I have!”

“I have a choice?” I burst out, my own frustration rising by the second. “I didn’t give up everything and come halfway across the world to get benched for an ankle sprain!”

“You’re lucky, Jordan. You’ve got a brain.” His finger jabs at the photo on my corkboard that I tacked up only yesterday of me with my parents. It makes my gut clench to see us smiling happily at the camera, the snapshot a daily reminder of how easy it is to lose what you care for most. “You’ve got a fucking family. You’ve got the world at your feet. A smart girl with talent who looks like you? Scouts are gonna be busting down your door to get at you. You just … you … ” A frustrated groan slips from his lips. He grabs at his hair and stalks for the door.

“Where are you going?” I demand when his hand circles the handle. I push up on my feet and pitch forward, my ankle giving out beneath me.

Brody moves fast, grabbing underneath my armpits before I crumple to the floor. “Dammit, Jordan.”

Anger has him breathing hard. I meet his eyes to find him staring down at me. It freezes me in place and desire slams me like a freight train.

When he eventually speaks his voice is hoarse. “I wasn’t leaving. I was going to get you a first aid kit. You need some ice and a bandage.”

Making sure I’m steady, Brody’s hands fall away and he leaves the room like Satan’s on his heels. I sink to the edge of the bed, brushing hair from my face with a shaky hand. When he returns, he’s carrying a first aid kit in his hand.

He crouches at me feet.

“I can do it,” I squawk, my voice like a crazed bird. In my defense, I have Brody sitting back on his heels, taking my leg in both hands and resting my foot on his knee.

“Let me,” Brody says quietly, his head bowed as he takes a bandage from the kit by the floor on his left. Unwrapping it from the package, he begins winding it around my ankle. After a few turns, he looks up from beneath thick lashes. “Not too tight?”

I clear my throat. “No. It’s good.”

He returns to his task, extending the bandage up the length of my calf and back down as he speaks. “Are you worried about scouts, Jordan? Because you don’t need to be. If they see something they like, they’ll come back.”

I’m tempted to throw out a cavalier comment and hide the fear. If I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist, right? I even go so far as to open my mouth before I snap it shut.

Brody’s head is bent at his task, fingers nimble and brow furrowed in concentration. There’s sweetness beneath his cocky exterior. I don’t see him share that with anyone else, but for some reason I’m given peeks. Instead of turning away, I look, and now it’s all I can see.

“Getting this international sports scholarship was like winning the lottery.” Brody pauses and stares up at me, his eyes dark and troubled in the waning light. “I’ve come from having nothing, and now I’m on the verge of having almost everything, and I know I’ll never get another chance like it.” Like always, the thought overwhelms me. I turned my head away, staring blindly at the wall over Brody’s shoulder.

Brody

I set Jordan’s foot on the floor and push up on my knees. It brings my face in line with hers. Taking her chin in my hand, I drag her gaze back to mine. The searing blue in her eyes is dull and tired. “Is that what today was all about?”

Jordan’s lips press tight for a moment. “I’m scared,” she says. “Sometimes the pressure gets too much, and I push myself too hard.” Her eyes search my face. She’s waiting for me to brush her fears off as trivial, but I don’t. How can I, when the same fear echoes inside my own heart? “I’m so scared I’m going to mess it up.”

“Why?” I push, forcing her to give me more. “What’s gonna happen if you mess up?”

Jordan hesitates so I take her hands in mine, linking our fingers and resting them on her thighs. She stares down at them as she speaks. “I don’t have it all. I have my brother and I have soccer, and that’s it. He gave up so much to get me here. I was the one with the talent and the drive to succeed. He went without so I could benefit, every decision revolving around my future. And he put me first because his belief in me is as sure as his belief in the sun rising and setting each day.”

Jordan has someone who believes in her. Isn’t that half the battle? I swallow bittersweet emotion. My father can’t wait to see me fall. To say I told you so. I’ll never understand it, and yet I’ll do anything to prove him wrong. Whatever it takes. And sometimes that scares me more then failing does.

Rather than offer up empty platitudes that help no one, I grab the neckline of my shirt. It musses my hair as I drag it over my head and toss it on the floor. Jordan’s gaze drops to the ink on my chest, the tattoo placed to the right of my heart where I see it in the mirror every day.

I fight to win

To conquer

I will persevere

and use my fear

And with the grace of God

I will triumph

over failure

Rise

beneath defeat

And I will

fly

I watch her silently. Jordan lifts her arm and my lungs constrict when her fingers touch my bare skin. Her fingers trail across the swirl of black letters as she reads them. Her simple touch is intimate. Reverent. It sends goose bumps skittering across my chest. Her pretty blue eyes lift to meet mine and a wordless understanding passes between us. “You fly too?”

I nod, struggling to ignore the heavy pounding of my heart. “Out there on the field, the game is everything. It builds you up, breaks you down, and it bleeds you dry. But I love it. It’s the only place I’m free.”

Jordan’s eyes drop again to the tattoo. She covers it with the flat of her palm as though absorbing the words into her very skin.

“Who wrote it?”

She’s the first person to ever ask the question. “I did.”

“It’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful.

I shift closer. I feel like I’m falling. The weightless sensation is all her. Jordan is all I can see. My hands take hold of her hips, fingers tightening as I fight the feeling. I take a deep breath and count to ten. It doesn’t work. When I try again I reach fifteen before giving up. It’s not working because I don’t want it to. I don’t want to stop the way she makes me feel.

“You believe in God?” she asks me.

“Of course.” I lean in, breathing softly against Jordan’s lips, and nudge her nose with mine. Her body trembles, revealing her nerves. “I need to believe in something.”

Her fingertips touch the soft curls of my hair before sliding around the nape of my neck, firm and warm. She holds my eyes and I can’t look away. “Then believe in yourself.”

“You can’t say shit like that.” Her bottom lip is lush and full. I nip it sharply with my teeth, relishing her sharp intake of breath.

“Brody.” She pulls back, her rejection coming through louder than a boom of thunder. It makes me want to pitch a tantrum like a kid who’s just been told Christmas is cancelled. “Why can’t I say stuff like that?”

I meet her eyes, staring into an ocean of blue. “Because I’ll only let myself down.”

Needing a minute, I push up off my knees and walk to the desk pressed up against the window. The blind is open but my eyes are drawn to the pile of books sitting neatly in the middle. On the top rests a copy of The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss. I pick it up and flick through the pages, letting it distract me.

“Bed time reading?” I glance over my shoulder at Jordan, waving the book.

Her expression becomes stern as if she just put on her tutor hat. In fact, I know she has when she follows it up with, “That’s your first lesson plan.”

“What?” My brows shoot skyward. I drop the book like a hot potato and turn around.

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I did. Is this some kind of joke?” I fold my arms, tension pinching my expression. “Give the dumbo a kid’s book and have a laugh while he stumbles over the easy words?”

Jordan’s brows form a thundercloud on her forehead. “That’s not it at all,” she snaps. “Easy and similar sounding words are often the hardest to read. It’s a book that will give me an understanding of where you stand with your reading levels.”

“So you can judge my levels of stupidity, you mean?”

“Brody!”

I draw in a breath, letting it out in a sharp huff through my nostrils. Jordan’s eyes are steady and resolute. She’s not backing down on this. Best just to get the next excruciating hour over with and leave, tail tucked firmly between my legs.

“Fine.” I pick up the damn book. “Let’s do this.”

With the book in hand, I move over to the bed. Jordan’s reclined against a couple of pillows but shifts sideways, freeing up space. I know she expects me to simply take a seat beside her. I don’t. If I have to read Dr. Seuss, I’m going to do my best to enjoy it. Before she can blink I’m stretched out beside her. It’s a risk. Jordan no doubt has a kick on her that could send me flying clear across the room. But she’s also injured, so I’m taking advantage.

Turning my head, I offer a grin.

“Comfy?” she asks, sarcasm loaded in her tone.

My boxer briefs are getting tighter by the second so that’s a no. Her vanilla scent surrounds me, and I press my nose into her neck and breath deep. Giggles erupt from deep in her chest and she pushes me away.

“Ah ha! She’s ticklish.”

The book is forgotten in an instant. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I yank it out of the way and lick her neck in one long stroke. Instead of a laugh, her eyes flutter closed and I get a deep, husky moan. For a moment I’m stuck, riveted in the sound. I’m not falling for Jordan. I’m plummeting hard and fast, and the feeling is indescribable.

“Brody.” My name is a rasp on her lips, and I rock my hips against her side, instinctively seeking relief. She tilts her head, giving my mouth access to the long line of her throat. “The book.”

“Fuck the book,” I say on a groan and take her earlobe between my teeth, nibbling as my hips rock harder. The book drops carelessly to the floor, and I cup her jaw, holding her to me so I can taste her skin.

“Stop,” she gasps.

I freeze, biting back a groan of frustration. Drawing away reluctantly, my hand slides from Jordan’s face. She turns her head on the pillow, her cheeks flushed.

“I’m your tutor. I have a responsibility to help you, not make out with you.”

Begging is a first for me, but today I’ve discovered I’m all for it. “You can do both.”

“Come on out, kids!” Leah’s holler echoes through the closed bedroom door. My head drops to Jordan’s shoulder and I’m ready to cry. “Dinner’s ready and it ain’t gonna eat itself.”

“Be there in a minute!” Jordan shouts before looking back at me. “I’m not going to be one in a long line of your girls, Brody. I’ll help you with your grades, but you can find some other girl to suck your dick.”

Her words are a slap in the face. Is that all she thinks I care about?

“I’m sorry,” Jordan says instantly. “I didn’t mean that. I just … I can’t do this.”

She’s out the door before I can reply. I follow her out, my stomach in knots as we sit down to dinner.

“What’s wrong?” Leah asks. I look up from my dinner plate. Leah sits opposite me at the tiny table, brows high. I’ve been pushing food around, tuning out their chatter. “You got a beef with the beef?”

“No, it’s great,” I lie. It tastes like week old sweat socks, or would if I’d ever chewed on a pair, but it’s no worse then anything Jaxon or Damien would ever cook so I’m not complaining.

Leah’s expression is doubtful. “You think so?”

Jordan snorts. “If Brody likes the taste of leather.”

Leah juts her chin out and jabs her fork at Jordan before turning it on me. “I was out here slaving over a hot stove while you two got your freak on behind closed doors. I hope y’all choke on it.”

Jordan and I share a quick glance while Leah stabs at her beef, shoving it in her mouth and chewing furiously. After a long moment and an audible swallow, she stands and grabs at our plates. “Who wants pizza?”

With dinner settling in my stomach, I’m reading through the Dr. Seuss classic at Jordan’s desk. My pace is painfully slow and the book is tricky. I grit my teeth every time I stumble, which is often. It has a snowball effect, leaving me tripping over every sentence.

Midway through I slam it closed and spin around in the chair. Jordan’s reclined on the bed with her ankle elevated on a pillow, clueless to all the dirty thoughts that hit me just from staring at her.

“Break time?” she asks.

“You think?” I roll shoulders damp with sweat. I was already agitated. Now I’ve had enough. I’m so done. I toss the book on the desk and turn back to Jordan. “What’s the verdict?”

She untucks her hands from behind her head and pushes up on her elbows, her eyes narrowing. “The verdict is that you’re lazy.”

I huff at her bluntness. “Don’t hold back or anything.”

“Sensitivity isn’t going to help you right now. Reading for most people is like riding a bike. It’s a skill they never lose. But for dyslexics, it’s something you have to work on every single day. You should know that.”

“I do know that. But who has the time to stretch out in bed each night with a copy of War and Peace?”

Jordan shakes her head. I’m not just irritating her with my bitching, I’m irritating myself. “It doesn’t have to be a classic. You can read the back of the cereal box for all I care. Just read. That’s your task. I want you to read for a half hour every day. I want you to highlight all the words you have issues with and I want you to write a small paragraph summarizing what you read so I can look over it.”

“What?”

“You told me you struggle with the words sinking in. Learning to summarize what you read will help you with that.”

Read the back of a cereal box for all she cares? I hide a smirk. If that’s what she wants, I’m going to find the most downright raunchy erotic story I can find.

Let’s see you look over that.

Jordan edges gingerly off the bed. Her expression is less pained, but I half stand from my seat, ready to help. “What do you need?”

“The bathroom,” she pants, rising to her feet and putting all the pressure on her right foot.

“Do you need help?”

“Do I … No!” She waves me away, limping steadily out the bedroom door. She’s only gone a minute when the laptop on her desk begins dinging relentlessly. Is it some kind of alarm? I swivel around and lift the lid. When it opens, the screen lights up and a guys face appears on Skype. Shit. I press a couple of buttons, not knowing how I’ve managed to answer a call just by opening her laptop.

“Hello?”

The voice is Australian, deep, and suspicious, and lines of irritation decorate his forehead. Jordan said she wasn’t dating anybody, but I never considered the idea of her having a guy back home waiting for her return. I’m considering it right now and it’s not sitting well with me.

“Who are you?” he demands to know, his tone rude and growly.

I reach up and tilt the screen. All the better for him to see my glare. “I’m the guy Jordan’s dating. Who the hell are you?”

He rears back like I just punched him clean in the face. It’s semi-satisfying in a virtual kind of way. “You’re what?”

His eyes shift to somewhere over my right shoulder, and I feel Jordan at my back. “Jordan who the hell is this guy?”

“Nicky?”

There’s a lot of love and happiness in that single word. It sets me on edge.

“Were you limping just then?” he asks, his brows drawn with concern.

“Just a little,” Jordan replies, leaning over my shoulder to speak with him. “I rolled my ankle. Not bad or anything,” she adds hastily when he opens his mouth. “I’ll be fine to play tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” I swivel sideways in my chair, an oh hell no expression on my face. “Baby, are you crazy?”

Jordan’s eyes go wide at the endearment. I admit it slipped out unintentionally but I can’t deny its brilliant timing.

“Baby?” comes the echoing growl from the computer.

My grin is slow and lazy. Jordan’s gaze drops to my mouth, those wide eyes now narrowing to slits.

“Jordan?” We both turn back to the computer. Frosty blue eyes glare back at us from the bright screen. “You let this asshole near you?” Nicky’s voice gets louder as he directs it on me. “You touch my little sister and I will reach right through this motherfucking computer and punch your goddamn dick off!”

Little sister?

I scratch uncomfortably at the back of my neck. This has now officially moved into awkward territory. I really should feel a situation out before I charge right into it like an ignorant asshole.

“Nicky!” Jordan snaps. Her face looks hotter than the sun. If I touched her cheek right now I’m sure it would scorch the skin clean off my fingers. “Brody, this is my twin brother, Nicolas Elliott. Nicky, this is Brody Madden. He’s a senior here at CPU. And we’re not dating,” she adds. “I’m his …” Jordan breaks off, right before she can spit the word tutor out. She fixes me a look of hard-eyed frustration.

“You’re his what?” Nicky prompts.

I clear my throat and face the screen. “We’re working on an assignment together.”

“And you need to do that in Jordan’s room?”

Who does he think he is? Her father? I lean back in my seat, arms folded and casualness oozing from every pore. “That’s right.”

“Oh good lord,” Jordan mutters from beside me. Putting both hands on the back of my chair, she rolls me to the side and out of view of the webcam.

“Hey!” My arms unfold, flailing as I careen across the floor. I set my feet down and halt the momentum.

Jordan doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Nicky is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

She lays her palms flat on the desk, the move taking the weight off her injured ankle. “Why are you being such an ass?”

“Because I don’t like you having strange guys in your room. You need to focus on school and soccer. Not Texan dickheads who go to college just so they can make notches on their bedposts.”

I’m already rolling my way back toward the desk when he lays out his insult. Grabbing the laptop, I turn it in my direction. Nicky’s face comes into view. “Texan dickhead?” I growl.

Jordan grabs it back, turning this ridiculous conversation into a laptop tug-of-war. “I’m working my ass off here on my grades and soccer.” She bites off each word, her temper straining on a very short leash. “You need to trust that I’m doing the right thing.”