Page 51 of Play For Me

“Like you had something sour in your mouth.”

“I didn’t?”

He just holds my gaze until I squirm, uncomfortable. “She broke up with Jenny three days before the conference tournament started!”

“Because she caught Jenny kissing some other chick outside the commons.”

I grumble. “Yeah, well, Jenny turned into Swiss cheese in the net after that. Totally fucked up our chances.”

“Unbelievable.”

I throw up my hands. “I’m just saying, she could have waited until after the tournament.”

“You’re ridiculous, Ransome.” But his voice is thick with amusement. Maybe even fondness.

“Do you want to come to our party or not?” I grumble.

He pats the side of my knee again before releasing my leg, done with the stretch. “I’ll ask Jay but I bet he’ll be into it.”

“Cool.” I pull myself up into a sitting position, feeling awkward now that we’re not training anymore. It felt normal when he was helping me with my stretches, but now I’m fully aware that I’m sitting inches away from him in the grass, sweaty and wearing a sports bra.

“You’ve got…” he gestures to my shoulder and when I stare at him blankly, his hand comes up, fingers brushing against my shoulder. A jolt goes through me when his skin touches mine. He pulls his hand back, revealing the clump of grass he’d pulled from my shoulder.

“Oh,” I say stupidly, looking anywhere but at his face. I’m afraid if I look at him right now, after feeling that zap of electricity, I might do something absolutely insane. Like try to touch him. Or pull his head down to?—

“Thanks,” I say, jumping up from the grass. “I guess I should hit the showers.”

“Sounds good.” He seems a little off too, more tense than he usually is. “I’ll, uh, text you, I guess? About the party, I mean.”

“Sure!” My voice sounds silly in my ears, overeager and way too bright. Fake. “That would be good. I mean. If you guys can come.” Shit, what is wrong with me right now?Get out of here,a warning voice in my head tells me.Get far away before you do something you can’t take back.

I lift a hand, already turning on my heel. “See you later!” I call over my shoulder. If he responds I don’t hear it—I’m too busy running to the locker room to hide.

“CeCe,”Violet says from the doorway to my bedroom. “What is wrong with you right now? Why are you acting like this?”

I blow my hair out of my face and look over at my cousin. “Acting like what?”

She waves her hands around me and the mess of discarded clothes on my bed. “Acting like you care what you wear tonight.”

I stiffen. Apparently, I’m being more transparent than I thought.

“Like you don’t go through a dozen outfit changes before you decide what you want to wear to a party.”

“Idodo that,” she agrees. “But you are not me. And when I’m picking my outfits, you’re usually out in the living room bitching about how I’m taking too long.”

She has a point. It’s not that I don’t care about how I look or that I never make an effort. It’s just that I designed my entire wardrobe and makeup routine so that I don’t have to put a lot of thought into it. I know what works on my body (tank tops and jeans, high-heeled boots when I’m feeling fancy) and what works on my face (mascara, liner, and the perfect shade of lipstick). My hair is too often sweaty from practice and workouts for me to ever spend time on it. A high ponytail or a braid works just fine.

I like the way I look. My body is strong and well-taken care of. My face looks like my mom, and she’s the most beautiful person I know. I like my personal style. I like the attention I get from boys—when I’m in the mood to deal with them. I have my share of flaws. My boobs will never be as big as Violet’s and my hair will never be as bouncy and soft as Vega’s. But I refuse to waste time getting upset about things I can’t change.

So why am I feeling so stressed right now? This isn’t even a real party—just some friends coming over to drink and hang out at our house.

Some friends and the guy you have a big, fat crush on.

I collapse back onto my bed, groaning. I may as well tell her—if he shows up here tonight, she’s going to know exactly why I was freaking out about clothes, and it will be worse, because she’ll think me not telling her means I’m sensitive about it.

“I invited Solomon. I don’t even know if he’s going to come, and I don’t know why I care what I look like if he does.” I grab a pillow and shove it over my face so I can’t see what is sure to be a smug expression on her face.

She wrestles the pillow away—I put up a good fight—and smiles down at me. “Ugh,” I groan, pointing at her. “I thought you were going to be smug but that smile is even worse.”