Page 33 of The Fake Divination Offense
Why’d it have to be water?
Dripping and far too graceless, I congregate on the side of the field with the rest of my waterlogged team as the crowd roars out a Hellhounds bark. It’s a madhouse of backslaps and excited leaps and congratulatory cheers, and press swarm the area, pursuing individual players and recording our celebrations. Marlow’s instantly set upon by half a dozen reporters.
I rip off my helmet, toss it on a bench, and turn away from a few other reporters who clearly want to talk. I’m notsearchingfor someone, but I’m notnotsearching for someone—
A cluster of people separates a few paces ahead, and Alexo’s there, being guided through the bedlam by a publicist who quickly ducks away once I’m in sight.
I don’t move.
I should, I think. But I didn’t get briefed on what we’re supposed to do beyondinteract.Or maybe I didn’t let my brain absorb any of the details about ourinteractionsbecause I don’t trust myself not to spiral wildly at the slightest provocation.
Which isgreatright now, considering Alexo’s crossing the grassy sideline toward me, still in that skimpy cheerleading uniform that makes saliva fill my mouth. It hugs every inch of his slender, cut body, his exposed skin glistening with sweat and more of that glitter. I swallow, aware I’m dripping saltwater like a giant drowned rat, but when I meet Alexo’s eyes, he gives me a small, encouraging grin with his glossy lips.
Alexo: PR stunt.
Alexo: PR stunt.
Hug him or something. That’s all this moment is. A shot for the cameras around us. So… hug him. That’s easy.
He stops in front of me. The stadium is thunderous and my teammates aren’t any better, so when he speaks, I have to angle down to hear him, close enough to smell his apple scent, a hint of his sweat.
“Congratulations,” he tells me. “You were amazing.”
He’s wearing makeup again, smoky gray around his eyes and mascara thick on his lashes.
“No,youwere amazing,” I say. “You look like you’ve been dancing your whole life. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
Real smooth.
But I can’t regret it. Not with the way Alexo smiles, dimples popping. “Yeah?”
“I hope it was everything you wanted it to be? That it made you happy? Youlookhappy.”
The way he’s staring at me becomes a relentless knot I couldn’t untie if I wanted to. The pause that follows is just as tangled, teeth fixed on his lip, a question building in his eyes.
“I don’t, uh—” I swallow again, and where there’d been way too much saliva in my mouth, I’m now dry. “I’m not sure what more we’re supposed to—”
He lifts up onto his toes and presses his lips to mine.
It doesn’t progress beyond exactly what the PDA list detailed. Kissing, no tongue. But that mundane description failed to note what itdoesinclude.
Like Alexo’s body, crushed to mine.
My arms around his hips.
His fingers scratching at my short, wet hair.
The glide of his gloss on my lips, the heat of his breath as I open to inhale, the taste of him like a shot thrown across my tongue, fruity and effervescent and eye-poppingly delicious. Except my eyes are pinched shut, desire streaking down my spine and out across my arms where I’m clinging to him, and I know,I know, that for all the time I spent plunging into deep, dark waters today, this is deeper, this is darker.
He’s mine.
Seb was mine. He was my friend, and then Camp Merethyl’s sadism made it so we had no one but each other, and he became myeverything.That’s the feeling eating at me now, the feeling I’ve spent a lifetime trying to keep caged, because I know how ruinous it can be, how dangerous. It made sense I’d feel that way with Seb, after what we went through, but with Alexo? I barely know him.I barely know him.
I break the kiss, the innocent, no-tongue kiss, and brace my forehead against his. I picked him up at some point, but he’s holding on to me just as firmly, and we’re both gasping, which makes sense. I played a game; he danced for hours. We’re out of breath from that. Nothing else.
“C-congratulations,” he says again, a stutter. I feel it on my sensitive lips.
“Thanks,” I tell him. And instinctively hug him tighter, because—I don’t know why.
