Untitled Part 38

Brett started going down the list of teen stressors, starting with the items with the highest scores. "Well, neither one of us has lost a parent recently. We haven't had an unplanned pregnancy."

"Unless you count Junior there."

He cracked a grin. "Fair enough."

We went down the list until he came to the item worth sixty-seven points. "Change in acceptance by peers," he murmured. "Is that why you're so anal about not being seen with me?"

"Bingo, Einstein."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"I mean most girls in the school would to be seen with me." He could have said that in an arrogant, preening way, but instead, his words were matter-of-fact.

"If by most girls, you mean Summer, then yes, I suppose you're right. But I'm not like most girls."

"No shit."

I rolled my eyes toward him. "Is there a reason why you're sidetracking me from the assignment?"

He rested his chin in his palm, his eyes never wavering from me. "I think you're scared that if people saw us hanging out together, they'd realize that maybe you aren't quite the bitch they think you are."

He was absolutely correct on one count, but I wasn't going to let him know that. Or the fact that, you know, I might actually like him in that hot and horny teenage way. Or maybe even in the "I might actually consider going out with you someday" way. "More like they'd wonder if you'd been hit in the head one too many times during football practice."

"So you're more worried about my reputation?" He covered his heart with his hand, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I'm so touched."

"Do you want me to kick you out of my house?"

He shook his head, grinning the whole time in a way that left little prickles of sweat along the back of my neck. "Don't worry, Lexi—your secret is safe with me."

"And what secret is that?" I pretended to stare at my screen, even though I was watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He leaned over, giving my rebellious hormones an unwelcome surge when the heat of his skin radiated onto mine. "That you're actually capable of being nice and braiding ribbons into little girls' hair instead of being the ball-busting bitch you want everyone to see you as."

I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from shaking and remembered I still had the picture of him playing horsey with his sisters. "Are you asking for a demonstration of the latter?"

He shook his head, settling into his seat again. "Nope. I've already seen enough through your blog."

"I suppose you're getting a rise out of tormenting me, aren't you?"

His grin only confirmed it, even though he said nothing.

I scanned the list, looking for distraction in any place I could find it. "Here's one for you—breaking up with a girlfriend."

"Not an issue."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot, Summer's not your girlfriend, even though she tells everyone in the school she is."

That wiped the grin off his face. "She does?"

"How clueless are you? She even sent me threats through my sister to keep my hands off of you."

His brows bunched together, accentuating the downward turn of his mouth. "Perhaps I need to have a little talk with her."

"Go right ahead. Meanwhile, I'm giving you points for the breakup since in some respects, you are having to end this fictitious relationship Summer's created." I jotted down the number, daring to give voice to the question that had been lingering in my mind since I'd first acknowledged my attraction to him. "So, what is the story between you two?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"She's a deceptive, superficial, manipulative, back-stabbing bitch."

He let out a low whistle. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"I'll share if you will."

"I'm game." He cracked his knuckles. "I know Summer wants to be more than friends, but I'm not into her."

"What are you into?"

His eyes flickered over me, his grin widening. "That's not part of our deal."

My cheeks burned, and I stayed focused on my screen. "Fine. But then tell me this—if you know she's into you even though you're not, why do you hang out with her all the time?"

He tapped his pen on the table, his lips pursed. "Maybe because I know her better than you, and I know she could really use a friend. She's not as perfect as she pretends to be. It's all an act to protect her from what's really going on."

"Meaning?"

He stilled. "How well do you know Summer?"

"Apparently not well enough, since she was the one person who betrayed me."

"Aha. I knew there was a history between you two."

Flashbacks of that day raced through my mind, each one accompanied by a fresh wave of nausea. Summer standing on a chair in the center of the lunchroom, my stolen diary in her hand. Her voice, as loud as it was on the football field, reading each embarrassing line I'd written. The laughter that followed after each secret confession of my soul. The pointed fingers, snickers, and names that tormented me for the months that followed. The dark nights where I'd cry myself to sleep and pray for some serious illness so I wouldn't have to go back to school the next morning.

"Just don't share any secrets with her unless you want them broadcasted to the entire school," I said, my voice hoarse.

One brow raised, but he said nothing.

I kept going down the list, acutely aware of the silence that bordered on pity. "Hey, at least neither one of us has been suspended from school or had a parent recently incarcerated."

"Yeah, I suppose that's true." Then he grew quiet again, his mouse arrow hovering over the line that listed the value for "increased arguments between/with parents."

His unease was infectious, worming through my stomach and twitching into my legs. But since he felt like he had every right to psychoanalyze me, I figured I could return the favor. "So, your dad's really pushing you hard for that football scholarship, huh?"

He pushed back from the table and stood, turning his back to me.

Now he knew what it felt like when someone pointed out his issues.

"I suppose you might understand," he started, then clamped up. He reached into his bag and pulled out a football.

Geez, did he lose part of his super jock mojo if he was more than ten feet away from one of those things?

I could have been completely snarky and told him to stay the hell out my problems if he didn't want me returning the favor, but I couldn't make my tongue form those words. Because perhaps I did understand. And because perhaps learning more about the real Brett intrigued me. "What?"

He squeezed the ball in his hands, his fingers splayed between the laces. "My dad played football. He even got to play in the NFL for a couple of years until he blew his knee out. And since I'm his only son, he's been pushing football on me as long as I can remember."

Now it was my turn to lean my cheek against my hand and study the person in the hot seat. "Do you even like playing football?"

"Are you kidding? I love it." He pretended to pass the ball, the lean muscles of his body moving with the same fluid grace as they had on Friday night. "I love the intensity, the strategy, the physicality, the camaraderie of the team."

"Do you really mean that, or are you just trying to incorporate your SAT flash cards into a sentence?"

He slapped the football, a single note of laughter breaking free. "Maybe both?"

"I thought as much."

"But in all honesty, I do enjoy playing. What I don't like is the fact my dad keeps trying to make it the only thing in my life. I mean, yeah, it would be great if I could play college ball and get a free ride because of it, but my mom is also right in that I need to make sure I have a back-up plan."

"And what would you do if you didn't have football?"

He stared the ball for several long seconds as through I was asking him to kill an old friend. "I have a few ideas, but nothing definite."

"Meaning?" He was hiding something from me, something he didn't want me to know about. And the way he kept dancing around on his feet told me he was struggling with whether to reveal his secret to me.