Page 36 of Reluctantly You
“Sure, but only if you like losing,” I reply back.
Gideon lets out a small, dark chuckle. “We’ll see about that. I never lose.”
“Yeah, there’s a first time for everything,” I say as I pull my phone out and stare at the screen. I’m still not sure what to say back to Magnus.
The message sits there, taunting me, teasing me, and Gideon must see it in the set of my lips because he asks, “What? What’s that face for?”
“Nothing,” I reply, flicking my phone off. I don’t want to tell him my insecurities, my fears. I already disclosed far too much last night. What must he think of me?
That I’m a pussy, weak and afraid.
We ride in silence, my body clenched tightly, squirming with the need to say something, to tell someone something.
Fuck it. He already hates me. What’s one more point against me?
“I messaged my brothers last night. Magnus is the only one to respond. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
Gideon’s thumbs tap on the steering wheel. “Hm.”
“I was a shit brother back then, but now, I don’t know what to say,” I admit, feeling suddenly small. I hate how I always feel like this around Gideon, that somehow he brings it out in me. Or maybe I’m just a small man and that’s to be my legacy.
I sure as fuck hope not.
“Well, I’ve always said, the truth never hurts and a good apology works as well.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice tinged with snark. “You like to apologize, huh?”
He peers over at me. “When warranted.”
He doesn’t apologize to me for all the shit he spewed at me though, just parks the car and gets out without a backward glance. I follow along, his words ringing in my ears. He may not practice what he preaches, but he’s not wrong. Ishouldapologize.
As we shove our things in lockers, I quickly type out a response, hoping that I don’t regret it later.
Me
You’re not hallucinating. I’m sorry for being an asshole.
I don’t know what else to say, I don’t like any of these feelings cropping up inside of me. So, I shove my phone away and stride out to the court.
Gideon is a better basketball player than he’s led me to believe. His body is quick and nimble, moving the ball around the court with a precision even I can’t manage. I’m winded and frustrated thirty minutes into the game, my heart rate picking up dramatically as he pushes his chest into mine, his strong, sweat-covered body pressed so damn close to me.
“This isn’t the fucking NBA,” I murmur, and he winks at me.
“I know, but you just kinda suck at basketball.”
My eyes narrow, and I feel rage pool in my belly, hating that he’s better at this than me, that he domineers me not only in the office, but on the court, too.
“Don’t be such a sore loser,” he says, shoving me with the basketball.
I grab it, my fingers skimming his, and I feel something flare inside of me, deep inside my skin. Something that makes me shift and itch, a need buried so deeply, I can’t fucking think.
Yesterday, I was comatose with sadness, and now I’m back to just being angry.
Better that than dead, I suppose.
“I’m not a loser,” I spit.
“Hm, isn’t looking that way right now,” he says with another one of those smug grins.