Page 26 of The Golden Receiver

“How the fuck does it affect you?” I demanded, turning this whole thing around on him. Because that’s what this was really about: Evander Hemmings and his invasive personality. I wasn’t the one that kept inserting myself into his life. No, that was him, inserting himself where he wasn’t wanted. Inserting himself into my life and my bad moods. If he wasn’t doing that, then it wasn’t going to affect him.

“Because tomorrow night, we’re both on the field together,” he started, “and I need to know that you’re not going to have a hissy fit while you’re out there and cost us the game because you think you’re too good to be number two. It affects me because you’re a piss poor team player and you know it.”

His words hit me in the chest. I had never been accused of being a poor team player in my life. I might not have been the most sociable guy in the world off the field, but on the field was a different story. I’d been told time and time again that I was a good teammate. I’d always played unselfishly at my old school. I’d been a leader on the field, even if I wasn’t so good at dealing with people off it.

I took a second. I took a breath. I thought about why he might be saying that. From his point of view, maybe that was what this looked like. I saw that I was the second or third read, not the place I’d spent my whole football career, and I stormed out of the training facility. I’d said it wasn’t good enough because it wasn’t. If I wanted a chance to play professional football, I needed to be number one. I needed the kind of stats that showed off my talent, and I wasn’t going to get that if most of the time, I was blocking so Evander could get those stats.

Maybe that wasn’t a good way to look at it. Maybe that wasn’t being a team player.

Fuck. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was only good at being the star player.

That wasn’t a great feeling. I hated the idea that he was right, that I’d somehow become a piss poor team player over the years. I hated the thought that I’d been too busy thinking about the ways I could have a better go on the field that I stopped thinking about what was best for the team. And most of all, I hated that Evander had seen it and called me out on it. It might have been easier to handle if he’d been wrong about it, but he wasn’t.

And the worst part of all of it was the way he looked at me when the realization hit. Like he knew that he was right.

He sucked in a deep breath, and the glow in his eyes dimmed. Maybe that had been an emotional thing, him getting pissed and some internal fire showing in his eyes. I almost snorted at the thought.

“So, what would be good enough for you?” he asked. His voice was calmer, but those words stoked the irrational anger inside me.

“Being the best,” I told him bluntly. That was what would be enough for me. I was used to being the big fish in the little pond, the best player on the field. It had been that way all through high school and at my old college. But here? Here I didn’t stand out in the crowd. I was one of the fastest, not the fastest. I was a good catcher, but there were better catchers. I could dodge and block, but other people on the team could do it better. It left a bitter taste on my tongue.

I couldn’t read the expression on his face. All I could tell was he wasn’t impressed by the fact that I wanted to be the best. Like he could say anything else. I watched the way he played, and someone who didn’t want to be the best didn’t play the way he did. They didn’t wake up before dawn to go running before training every day either. Who the hell was he judging me for wanting to be the best?

He didn’t say anything though. Maybe I was reading the whole thing wrong, and he wasn’t judging me. I believed that about as much as I believed that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy had a fantasy league going.

But I was going to take advantage of him not saying anything. I could get the hell out of here. I could go back to my dorm, and I could put a locked door between me and him. I made it a whole two steps past him before I felt his hand around my wrist. My mind flashed back to Saturday night, to pushing him and him grabbing me. To the moment when the tension in the air shifted between us and he had me pinned against the science building by the lips.

I didn’t like the way my body reacted to that memory. I yanked my hand away from him. “Do you have a problem?” I demanded. “Seriously. Do you have a problem? Is it a stalking thing?”

He blinked. “Is a stalking thing an actual thing?” He sounded amused by the question.

I whipped around, glaring in his direction. So much for heading back to Karloff Hall. “You tell me,” I retorted. “You’re the one that follows me around all the damn time. Hell, you can’t even take the damn hint when I didn’t come run with you this week. You just interrupted my morning runs.”

He just shrugged. He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of the fact that he was following me around campus like a damn stalker. “Maybe I just want to talk to you,” he said plainly. I raised an eyebrow because what did that even mean? “Maybe I wanted to find out why you ghosted me after we kissed last week.”

Ghosted him? I didn’t call not paying him much attention ghosting him. That implied that there was more going on than what had happened.

He’d made me spill my drink at a party, then he’d followed me back to campus. We bickered, and he kissed me. Not exactly a ghosting-type situation. So what if I didn’t show up for our runs after that? That had been a casual arrangement. If it had been something more steady, then he wouldn’t have to text me every morning to tell me where we were meeting. He wouldn’t feel the need to fucking invite me every time. It’d just be a set in stone thing, meet in front of the dorm and head over together.

Ghosting implied we had some kind of relationship before that kiss, even if it was just a friendship. We didn’t even have that going for us.

“Are you going to answer?” he asked. “Why did you ghost⁠—”

“I didn’t ghost you,” I answered. “You kissed me. I left. Big deal.”

“You kissed me back,” he pointed out.

I had, but that had been a natural reaction. It wasn’t a big deal, and I didn’t know why he had to make it into one. I’d got caught up in the moment, and the moment my head cleared, I left. That wasn’t ghosting. But he was still looking at me expectantly.

I heaved a heavy sigh. “Kissing you back wasn’t a thing,” I told him. “It was just⁠—”

“Just what?” Evander demanded, cutting me off. His eyes flashed gold again. Was it just the light shining through the trees or was it something else? “Just what, Kieran?”

“A natural reaction.”

He took another step towards me. The air was still crackling with tension, but it had shifted. It wasn’t as angry as it had been. It was thicker, and it felt like there was some kind of electric charge hanging between us. It was too thick, too loaded. When Evander took a third step, I had to take a step back. Unfortunately, the trail wasn’t the greatest, and I hadn’t been looking where I was going. I stumbled backwards over a root. Evander’s hand shot out to try to catch me, but the momentum was too strong. We both fell backward. His body blanketed mine, and I was surprised by how heavy he was.

I shouldn’t have been. He might have been leaner than I was, but he was muscular. I’d seen him working out every morning, mostly because he’d followed me around the gym the same way he followed me around everywhere else.