Offside (4 page)

“You are so full of shit.”

I turned the conversation to other topics as we went around another corner, peppering her with questions, and then turned back toward the math hall. She looked around quickly, and her eyes went wild.

“This is where we started!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” I tried to keep in a laugh as the second bell rang. I pointed to the end of the hall. “Calc is right there.”

“What the hell?” she shrieked. “Now I’m late!”

“Just tell Miss Jones you were with me,” I said as I raised an eyebrow at her. Her eyes were still full of fire as she stared up at me.

“You
are
a jerk,” she exclaimed, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the calculus room.

I chuckled and headed out to the field.

Nothing like practice in the pouring rain.

I shook my head, sending water everywhere, but it didn’t make any difference. Coach Wagner was yelling at Mika Klosav, and Clint Oliver was taking potshots at the goal. He wasn’t really trying too hard, and I hadn’t missed any of them.

“You suck!” I finally screamed at him through the downpour. “Why don’t you at least try?”

It worked, and he almost got one past me. The new guy—whose name apparently
was
Tony—jogged up after talking to Wagner.

“Coach wants you,” he said to Oliver. Tony eyed me warily as Clint ran off.

“Quit with the freak out,” I told him. “You didn’t swallow my cock, so you’re still going to grow up to be a man. Now just kick the fucking ball, all right?”

He glared but then nodded. He took a couple warm-up shots, and I had to admit, the kid did have a decent leg on him. In a couple of years, he’d be pretty good. I watched his legs move—the angles, the tension in the muscles of his thigh and calf as he kicked.

“Come here,” I said. Tony paused for a moment and then walked up to the goal slowly. “Your knee’s bending right before you get foot to ball, and you’re losing leverage.”

I showed him what I meant, had him try a couple shots, and he gave me a nod and admitted he was getting more power now. Coach Wagner called us all together, and we did a quick scrimmage before calling it a day. I headed back to the locker rooms, but Lisa approached me before I could get there.

“Hey, Tom!” she beamed.

“It’s Thomas,” I replied. I didn’t really care for the shortened version of my name and definitely didn’t like chicks thinking it was somehow endearing. I kept walking.

“So, you know the next dance is the Sadie Hawkins dance, right?”

“Is it?”

She had to practically run in the rain to keep up with me. She giggled and told me to slow down. I took a deep breath and turned to look at her. She was still smiling up at me with rain cascading off her face and hair and mascara running under her eyes. She looked like she came right out of a zombie movie.

“Well?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me.

“Well, what?”

“Do you want to go to the dance?”

“With whom?”

“Well…with me…” Her voice dropped, and I had to shake my head a little. Poor thing. She really was clueless. I’m not sure how she could have grown up around here and been in this school for over two years without understanding how things worked around here. I pay attention to you. You put out. I find someone else. End of story. Well, usually. I hadn’t actually seen her naked, so there was still some potential there, and maybe that’s what she was really offering—a chance to really fuck her.

My mind flashed backwards—the feel of warm, soft skin brushing against my arm and the look in Rumple’s eyes when she realized I had walked her in a big square around the school—and I smiled. My mind returned from its musings and back to the blonde next to me. I had planned to pull her along for a while, at least until I got into naked and riding my cock, but I really didn’t want to right now.

“Sorry babe,” I told her. “I’ve got a game the next day.”

I turned away from her and headed from the rain shower to the locker room shower, Lisa’s disappointed face already a thing of the past. I warmed up in the shower, talked to Clint a bit, grabbed my bag, and headed home. As I sped out of the parking lot, I noticed a beat up old Hyundai with a cute little brunette in the driver’s seat and decided to follow her home.

Holy fucking shit!

The Hyundai pulled into the driveway of none other than the town’s sheriff, Greg Skye. I didn't know if I should laugh or laugh harder. For one, the guy absolutely hated me, not so much because I got in trouble, but because I always got out of it on the few occasions I had been caught. Whether it was a speeding ticket, illegal parking, or a noise violation—I'd never had to pay for anything I had done. Not when Daddy was the sheriff’s boss. Definitely not. For the other…well…the guy did have a gun.

This was going to be interesting.

I didn't stop but just drove by a couple of times before heading home. My house was quiet and empty when I got there, so I cooked and devoured a pizza from the freezer, quickly finished up my homework, and then pulled out my sketchbook. I had a couple hours before Dad would be home, and I was almost done with the goalie picture. Just a few changes here and there—deepening the shades, softening the angles. When I was done, I pulled it out of the book and neatly trimmed the edges.

It actually looked pretty good, I thought. I narrowed my eyes at the paper, looking at it from different sides for a minute. I wondered if Ms. Mesut would like it…I mean, it was still a fucking soccer picture. Is that art? I shook my head a little before sticking it into my homework folder and placing everything into my book bag. I hauled the bag back downstairs and deposited it on the floor in the kitchen.

My phone started ringing, and I glanced at the name before answering.

“All fixed?”

“Yeah, he'll never ref in Oregon again, at least.”

“Good thing. Suspensions?”

“Wiped.”

“You rock.”

I hung up just as I heard the front door open.

“You fix your shit yet?” Dad called out from the foyer.

Good timing.

“Yeah, all good—no suspensions.”

“Good.” He dropped the mail on the kitchen table and started flipping through a carryout menu. “Homework?”

“Done.”

“Did you have a bunch of extra shit from those college prep classes?”

“Nah,” I said, “it's all good. I've already read the first book we're doing in English, and the biology stuff is mostly going to be lab work in school.”

“When the hell did you read a book?” he snapped. “You don't have time for that shit. I don't know why you're bothering at all. You aren't going to college. Pros or bust, asshole.”

“I know,” I said. I tried to walk out of the room, but he grabbed my arm.

“I asked you a fucking question,” he said. His cold blue eyes stared into mine. “I expect an answer. What book?”

“It's a Shakespeare class,” I mumbled.

“What the fuck, Thomas!” His grip on my arm tightened. I tried to keep my arm from flexing in order to ease the pressure because I knew that shit would just piss him off. I didn't need him angry.

“I figured it would be an easy A,” I told him.

“Little shit,” he grumbled. “Next, you'll be playing the fucking piano again like a pussy.”

My hands started to shake a little, and the tension crept up from my gut and down my arms. He released me, and I headed straight to the solace of my room. Along the way, I tried not to glance at the piano in the living room, but I couldn't help it. It sat there, lid down, as it had for the past six years. I locked my bedroom door, but the relief didn't last.

“Thomas! Get down here!”

Shit! What now?

I unlocked the door and headed back down the stairs.

“Yeah, Dad?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen where he was chowing down on Chinese food. My book bag was open, and my homework folder was sitting in the middle of the table.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, shoving the sketch I had just finished over toward me.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Um…”

“That's not a fucking answer.” He smacked his hand down on the table, and I jumped a little.

Might as well get it over with.

“I went for the art class instead of study hall,” I told him. I tried to brush it off. “Another easy A for my senior year…ya know?”

“Goddammit, Thomas!” He slammed his hand down on the table, and I cringed. “You should be out on the fucking field during that time! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“My last period is open,” I told him, “and I go to the field at lunch. I figured—”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. I started to reach for the sketch, realizing too late how big a mistake that was. He grabbed it, tore it up, and crumpled the pieces in his hand. “You don't focus on this shit. Soccer, asshole. You focus on
soccer
, and that's it, you hear me? You think Real Messini is going to want to look at your fucking coloring?”

“No, Dad,” I admitted. He shoved the torn paper into the bag of empty soy sauce packets and fortune cookies before tossing it in the garbage can.

“Drop that fucking art class tomorrow.”

My stomach tightened as if there were big balls of pizza dough in it, but I swallowed hard and replied.

“Okay.”

Shakespeare phrased destruction as “dash'd all to pieces
.”
Somehow, that line from
The Tempest
came to mind though I wasn't sure why, so I tried to think about something else.

Now how was I going to get Rumplestiltskye to tell me her first name?

CHAPTER 3

OUT OF PLAY

“Hiya!”

Heather Lones plopped herself down beside me at lunch just as I was finishing up and about ready to head out to the field.

“Hey,” I responded, not really wanting to talk to her.

“So, you know the dance is coming up next weekend, right?” She popped her chewing gum in her mouth as she bounced up and down in the plastic cafeteria chair.

“Yeah,” I said. I knew where this was going and didn’t want to hear the rest of it.

“So, do you want to go with me?”

“Busy,” I told her as I stood up to leave.

“Do you already have a date?”

“Not the point.” I started walking away, but she followed.

“Thomas!” she whined. “You don’t have to spend all your time on the field, you know.”

“Yeah, actually,” I said, “I do.”

I walked faster, leaving her behind pretty quickly. I took a few shots on the goal—not my position, but every once in a while you have to branch out, and there was no one else outside to kick a few at me. It was only misting, so at least I wasn’t soaking wet when I went back into the school, changed, and headed to biology with my hair still dripping from my shower.

As I walked down the hall, my mind flashed through my interactions with Rumplestiltskye from the previous day. I couldn’t help but smile to myself; she had been so ticked off at me, and it was seriously fucking cute. When I entered the classroom about ten minutes late, she glared at me before I even sat down. Bucher didn’t even bother saying anything to me; he just went on with his lecture.

“Hey there,” I said, shifting my desk forward and into the aisle a bit to make sure I could look right into her face. It was hot today despite the misting, and she was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a V-neck. I quite liked the deep blue on her, which was fucking hot against her pale skin and brought out the color in her eyes.

She only gave me a slight nod in response and kept her eyes up front. I watched her as she stared at Bucher, taking copious notes as he rambled on. I kicked the side of her leg under her desk, and she glared at me.

“So sorry,” I said with a wink. She rolled her eyes and went back to trying to ignore me. I reached out and bumped her arm, causing her to smudge her notes, and then shrugged apologetically when her eyes shot a handful of daggers at me. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and glared at her paper. I tapped her arm again, and she shifted her whole body so it was angled away and continued her note-taking.

I reached over and swiped her pen.

“Hey!” she snapped under her breath. “Give me that!”

“You didn’t say please,” I whispered, holding the pen out of her reach.

“Give me my pen,” she snarled. I smirked.

“Come to practice,” I said.

“What?”

“You come to my soccer practice after school today, and I’ll give you your pen back.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’ll come, then?”

“No!”

I twirled the pen around in my fingers. Bucher stared over at our table, and I could hear Rumple take a deep breath and sit very still until he looked away.

“Come to my practice,” I repeated.