Page 65 of The Cheerleader

Before I can say more, some guy almost crashes into me, and Bryan pulls me out of the way, shielding me with his body as if I’m in danger of getting hurt. I guess I am.

The drunk guy rights himself and looks me over, ignoring Bryan. “Well, hello there, pretty girl.”

“Hi there, drunk guy.”

He laughs, then he squints as he studies me, trying to figure out what to say next, and I smile because he’s a little cute. “Hey, I know you—you’re a cheerleader.”

My smile falters, and I nod, not sure how to react. Should I be flattered that he recognizes me, or wary?

I can feel Bryan’s eyes on me while I decide, and I know without looking his face is expressionless. It’s his default reaction to me, and that bugs me. I forget about trying to figure out the drunk guy. The desire to make Bryan smile, a real smile, or even to make him laugh seems more important.

“I’m surprised you recognize anyone, drunk guy.” I dart a glance at Bryan. He's still poker-faced.

“I’m not drunk. Not yet. Hey, how about if we chug? Whoever wins buys the beer.”

I laugh because the drunk guy convinces me he’s, in fact, very drunk. “Thank you for your confidence in my skills, but I’m not a beer chugger.”

He moves close, and if there was any question left about his drunken state, it's now resolved based on the smell of his breath.

He leers at me. “What do you chug?”

Before I have a chance to answer, Bryan steps between us, moving the drunk guy back a step without touching him.

“She’s not interested in chugging. Move along.”

Drunk guy squints up at him as if he’s noticing him for the first time. “Do I know you?” Then he looks at me. “Are you with him?”

“No.” We both say it at once.

“Then—”

“But Bryan’s right, I’m not⁠—”

“Bryan? Are you sure you’re not someone I know?”

Bryan stares back at him without answering for a beat of silence.

I huff because I may as well put an end to the stare-down before the drunk guy gets himself into trouble.

“He’s—”

“No one. I’m no one.” Bryan cuts me off in a quiet, yet almost menacing voice.

I turn back to him to find him watching me. No expression, but I’m sure he doesn’t want me outing that he’s a football player, and I’m curious why.

“I was going to tell him you're a farmer.” My heart flickers, warning me I might be playing with fire, provoking him.

A flicker of something crosses his face, and I smile, choosing to believe that something in his expression is approval. Not sure why I’m pleased with his approval—real or imagined.

“A farmer?” Drunk guy has a laugh in his voice.

Bryan shifts his attention back to him.

Drunk guy grins. “You an Ag major?”

“Yes.” Bryan stares a beat. “Problem with that?” He says the words in a low, growly voice that reminds me of an animal in the night, the kind you don’t want to tangle with.

Drunk guy appears to agree with my impression because he backs up, gives me a salute, and turns away, stumbling past the rest of our group before he melts into the crowd.