The last piece of paper is a sticky with seven lines on it, which must be names, but I can’t really decipher Ahmed’s handwriting. I carefully shut the folder so I don’t give in to the urge to rip the yellow sticky into tiny pieces.
“How does Ahmed know her?” I try to school my voice into being as disinterested as possible.
Hammer spreads his hands in disbelief, the beer bottle dangling precariously between his index and middle finger. “He says Ace and her are friends. Childhood buddies. Couldn’t believe it because she’s hot and there’s no way you can be friends with someone that hot, even if you’re Ace, right?”
I nod because Hammer’s speaking the truth. There’s no way I could only be friends with Lucy.
“So he just barfed up this information to you?”
“Not exactly. His girlfriend was there when I asked about the picture in Ace’s locker. She kind of told me everything. Ahmed just wrote it down.”
I toss the folder onto the desk, feeling guilty and a little dirty for knowing this stuff about Lucy. I don’t even ask where they got the other information. There’s always someone around who’s willing to bend the rules when a Warrior’s in the equation.
10
Lucy
By Tuesday, I’m a jittery mess and I can’t even blame it on my diabetes. The sad fact is that I can’t get Matt Iverson out of my head. He’s dominating my thoughts when I should be focusing on mock trial and figuring out just how I’m going to fix our terrible team dynamic.
Over the weekend, I created a few instructional sheets for Heather—a list of courtroom procedures along with a detailed list of the objections she could make. She only needs to make a couple for the judges to give her a good score. Tonight I’m going to work on crafting a tight direct examination.
She may not want them, but I’m doing this stuff anyway.
But mock trial doesn’t hold my interest long enough, and Matt creeps in again. I know I’m right about him—he’s bad news for me. He might be the sweetest guy in the world for the right girl, but I’m not her. My mom might be easily turned by a pretty head, but I’m not, no matter how powerful Matt’s sex appeal. He’s like an Exxon Mobile disaster, spilling his pheromones all over the ocean of female good intentions.
Good sex is not a reason to date anyone. To have a hookup? Yes. To date? No.
So just have a hookup, an inner voice suggests.
Because good sex leads to wanting more, and the one vibe I don’t get from Matt is that he’s a second- and third-round sort of guy. There are too many checks in the risk column and too few in the reward column.
As I’m putting on my coat, the worst thought occurs to me. What if he spots me going to Ace’s house and thinks I’m stalking him? Hurriedly I grab Sutton’s wool pea coat and tug a black cap over my head, hoping that it’s enough to render me unrecognizable.
In the few times I’ve been to Ace’s, I’ve never seen Matt, but today would be the day for that, wouldn’t it? I can just see him saying, “Hey, Luce”—and of course it would be ‘Luce’ because my two syllable nickname is one too many for Matt—”Hey, Luce, I didn’t realize you wanted my address instead of my phone number. But come on inside, my dick’s ready for you.”
Actually, my sex-deprived brain added that tidbit. He probably wouldn’t say that to me—emphasis on the probably.
All my worry is for nothing because by the time I get to the Playground, there’s no sign of him. The front door to Ace’s house is open, so I just walk in. Fortunately, only Ahmed and Jack are sitting in the living room.
Jack flashes a worried look in Ahmed’s direction but Ahmed waves his hand. “It’s just Lucy. She doesn’t care, do you, Lucy?”
“Nope.”
Apparently Ace has a girl in his room. I check my watch. It’s three in the afternoon. I swear to God that Ace can’t go one twelve-hour period without having sex. Because the guys all watch each other’s back religiously, if I was dating Ace I wouldn’t be allowed upstairs until he was done with his current fling, Stella.
Only it’s not Stella standing in the doorway of Ace’s bedroom. It’s a thin, busty blonde wearing the traditional gear of all winter Midwestern sorority girls: tight yoga pants, Ugg boots, and a pretty coat with an infinity scarf. Maybe the two were practicing yoga poses in there, although that wouldn’t explain why his tongue is currently exploring the back of her throat for what I presume to be tonsillitis.
“Ahem,” I clear my throat. Ace’s head rises lazily to look in my direction while his companion makes a throaty sound of disappointment. “Should I wait downstairs?”
I wonder if they had sex on the couch and whether I can find a clean pair of sheets in this place. One of the perks of living in the Playground, a set of eight houses bought by a booster to house the starters, is the laundry and cleaning services. It’s a good thing, because otherwise this place would smell like balls and sperm.
The first time I came here some guy was casually fondling himself on the couch. There are more women in and out of the bedrooms, bathrooms, and game rooms than go through the MAC counter at Macy’s on Black Friday. Less than half the guys on the team have girlfriends, and even the ones who are in relationships have a loose idea of fidelity.
If I wasn’t friends with Ace for so long, if he wasn’t like a brother to me, I’d probably have a hard time hanging out with them. As it is, I shut one eye to their indiscretions and remind myself that as long as I’m not the one putting my heart on the line, the team is full of good guys.