Page 65 of The Cheerleader is Off Limits

“Not you being all secretive. What’s going on? Is itPlane Daddy? I thought you cut that off?”

I told Delaney after the disastrous first day of school that I had broken things off with River and that he understood and wished me the best. I’d done this in hopes that she’d forget about the hot, older football coach named River I’d been messing around with, who was also coincidentally the name of our school’s football coach. Luckily, I don’t know that she knows him as anything other than “Mr. Kincaid” or “Coach K” or maybe she’s just forgotten his first name. Nevertheless, I’d hopePlane Daddywould just become “out of sight, out of mind.”

“I did. Not him.”

“Then whooo?” she says, and I’m thankful that she’s starting to feel her drinks because otherwise she’d probably be a little more relentless.

I toss my hair over my shoulder and lock my phone. "It’s no one. Let’s just go play flip cup."

Her eyes narrow immediately. “You’re deflecting.” She sings before pointing at me with her drink. "And you did that thing.”

I fiddle with the necklace I’m wearing. "What thing?”

“Your guilty thing.”

I snort. “What is that?”

“Your tell when you’re lying. You flip your hair and avoid eye contact.”

I finally take a healthy sip of the drink she brought over and almost choke at the strength of it. “Jesus Christ, did you make this?” I ask her, hoping that the swift change in subject may cause her drunk brain to forget her prior fixation.

“Sorry.” She purses her lips guiltily before wincing. “You know I’m a little heavy-handed.”

“Is there anything in this besides vodka?”

“Okay, first off, it’s tequila and maybe lemonade?”

I haven’t had a ton of experiences with tequila. I’m typically a wine, beer, or vodka drinker with the occasional gin if it’s super fruity. But I didn’t know how tequila affected me beyond maybe a margarita or two.

I guess I was going to find out.

“I do not taste any lemonade.” I chuckle before taking another long sip.

Two Hours Later

The phone rings three times.

Four times.

Five times.

I hold the phone out in front of my face and squint to make sure that the Instagram phone call is actually going through before putting it back to my ear when I see his name across the screen, indicating that I’m calling him.

I have a passing thought tohang up right now, but I ignore it just in time for the call to connect.

“Hello?” His voice sounds gravelly and gruff, and my nipples instantly harden at the sound of it washing over me. For asecond, I forget why I called or why this is a really bad idea. For a second, I allow myself to pretend that this is just a cliché situation of a girl drunk dialing the guy she likes.

Not a girl drunk dialing her teacher.

“Sorry, were you sleeping?” I ask, and then the sound of a girl laughing loudly on the front porch rings through the air. I’m about twenty feet from her, not wanting to have this conversation around anyone I know or, more importantly, anyone who may know the person on the other line.

“Where are you?” he asks immediately, completely ignoring the question I asked.

“A party.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath. “Tell me the cops didn’t get called.”

“No, no, nothing like that.” My eyes pan down the street both ways, and I don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary. This street doesn’t have many houses, and it appears that his neighbors aren’t home or just asleep, since most of their lights are out.