Page 42 of Hating On Riot

I stare at the small girl in front of me. It’s the day after our home game, where we pummeled those Monty boys into the ground.

I kept my head in the game, though I worried we were in deep shit for that kiss. But Arie did such a fabulous job that the head coach praised her for her hard work rather than canning her. I don’t regret what I did. I would never take back the kiss. Not even for all the wins in the world.

“We only have today and tomorrow, then it’s game on, Arie,” I remind her.

She did well on the sidelines yesterday. We spent this morning and afternoon booby-trapping the house. The other eight are doing the same. Four of them have canvassed our opponents’ place and workplace. We’ve created a group text and have been sharing intel left and right, my fucking phone blowing up with notification after notification.

The camaraderie is great. Different from what I have with the guys from the team and my brothers.

“I’m tired, Riot.”

She’s sweating and breathing hard. Beads slide down her temple and neck. I am fascinated by the droplets and the rise and fall of her chest.

I can stare at her perky, full breasts beneath her shirt until she admonishes me with a glare or a much-deserved swat to my shoulder. I can lick a path from her temple to the crook of her neck, then kiss my way down to Arie’s breasts. She must be sweating there too. Most guys would find the scent unpleasant, but it turns me on, especially when it mingles with her natural musk.

My gaze dips low, between her legs. She wears only her short shorts and thin tank tops when she’s with me. Otherwise, around the other guys, her shirts are buttoned to her chin, and her pants cover her shapely legs. I like that she is prim and proper around others but half-naked with me.

Is she afraid I’ll erupt into a jealous rage, like when we were teenagers and guys of all ages gawked? Shit, maybe her prim-and-proper demeanor is left over from our secret dating before her brothers caught me stealing a kiss from her under the bleachers.

A small hand swats my shoulder, yanking me out of my worrisome thoughts. “Stop staring.”

“‘Cause I turn you on?”

“Because you’re distracted, and you being distracted won’t help us win.”

She has a point.

“Can I ask a question?” I wipe the back of my hand across my sweat-dampened forehead, then run my fingers through my hair. Damp. With sweat. I fist my shirt and tug it forward, letting air hit my sweat-slicked skin.

Arie worked me hard, weaving between the large trees in the back of the parking lot before we moved into the lot, where cars, not trees, were what she wove through and hid behind.

She sits on the curb and sets the blaster down. “Shoot.”

With her arms wrapped around her raised knees, she glances up at me expectantly. A flush colors her cheeks, and long lashes sweep across her naturally sun-kissed skin when she blinks. Her lips part slightly with each breath.

Arie is beautiful, and suddenly I’m nervous. My hands shake. My breath comes in short bursts. My heart races. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts.

My question is personal. Am I ready for her answer? Am I turning an observation about how she dresses in public with me into something more than it is? I clear my throat. “Why do you dress conservatively when you’re out in public, but,” I wave my hand, “more risqué,” I cough into my hand, “when you’re with me?”

I plop down next to her, set my blaster on my lap, and stretch my legs. “To be clear, you can wear whatever the fuck you want. It’s just an observation. Or maybe I’m off base.”

“Do you think I’m showing off my body to you?”

She’s offended. Unhappy too.

I stretch my arms out behind me on the grass and watch a bunch of parents keep a watchful eye on their kids at the park across from us, with its playground, park benches, and a small pond. Young families live in some of the rentals near the rugby house. After graduation, should I settle in a small college town like Dumas or in the big city of Alexandria, where I grew up?

I haven’t fully thought through my options.

“If you are, I dig it.” What are Arie’s plans? I’m too chickenshit to ask. “You have a fine ass body. How you dress it up and for whom is your call.”

“What if I’m wearing this,” she jerks her chin toward the loose, royal-blue tank top that gives me a view of her cleavage and the short shorts with pockets that slide past the hem when she sits, “and some guy or guys stare too hard?”

I clench my jaw. “I’d fuck him up.”

“And that’s why I wear what I wear when I’m with you. You’re a fighter, not a lover, and being with you makes me feel safe.”

She gives me one of those closed-mouth smiles that reminds me of the saying about the cat that ate the bird. That’s how adorable Arie Kim looks. Laughing, I collar her by the neck and rub my fist over the top of her head, messing up her hair.