Page 33 of The Striker
I growl and shove him toward the stairs again just as Atticus and Deacon return from the kitchen, a Jarritos and some chicharrónes in their hands. “Don’t you guys have any regular food?” Deacon asks.
The knock sounds again.
“Bro, you live with three Mexicans,” Atticus says with a shrug. “This is their normal. You’ll get used to it.”
The guys are finally out of sight, and I take a deep breath before opening the door.
“Hey, you made it.” I force a smile into my voice, hoping she doesn’t sense how nervous I am.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine before she quickly looks away. “Yeah. Hi.” She steps inside and looks around. “Where is everyone? I saw a few motorcycles parked outside and there’s another car in the driveway. Are your roommates home?”
Maybe I wasn’t the reason for her reluctance to come inside. The thought brings a genuine smile to my lips.
“They’re here.” I tell her. Everyone aside from Julio, that is. Coach wanted him to stick around after practice. Something about strategies for our upcoming game. Who knows what they’ll come up with, but it better be something good if we’re going to have any chance at winning against CPU. The way practices have been going, we’ll be lucky if we even get a point on the board. “They’re just giving us some space to work on our project.”
She nods and follows me as I lead her toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”
Cecilia shakes her head and takes a seat against the back wall before pulling her laptop and a notebook from her bag. “I’m assuming we’re going to argue for intervention, right?”
I snort. “Obviously.”
She nods. “Cool. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
I take the seat kitty corner to her, and my knee brushes against her thigh. She stiffens. But I don’t pull it back, waiting to see if she’ll shift away.
She does.
My stomach drops.
Scooting her chair in, she also uses the opportunity to scoot her chair a couple of inches away.
I grind my teeth together, hating those added inches between us, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not without giving myself away.
“Alright, let’s get started.” With any luck, once we get rolling on our project, Cecilia will loosen up and start to relax. I don’t like the way she sits at the edge of her seat, spine ramrod straight. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be here. I’m going to need to do something about that.
We’ve both compiled a stack of notes, research we’ve come across from reliable sources. So much of what Israel is claiming in the media is disinformation, so we decide to start our presentation off by showing documented sources where the IDFmade claims against Hamas and the people of Palestine that have since been disproven.
The opposing side's biggest argument is that the Israeli government has a right to defend itself against outside attacks. Personally, whether a country has the right to defend itself and whether that same country has the right to commit genocide are two separate arguments, and under no circumstances is the latter ever true, but people don’t want to hear it.
Arguing right and wrong isn’t how you sway people. It’s smarter for us to show a pattern of behavior that demonstrates how untrustworthy the IDF and the Israeli government are as sources. They lie. A lot. And for some reason, the hill that people want to die on is about them having the right to defend themselves. Discrediting their government will go further than trying to appeal to people’s humanity. If history is anything to go by, the majority don’t have any.
We spend the next thirty minutes with our heads bowed over our notes, and with each minute that passes, the knot of worry in my chest slowly unravels. Her arm brushes against mine, and unlike before, she doesn’t immediately pull away.
“I think we should use this in our closing argument,” she says, drawing my attention to an article printout. Shifting closer, I peer over her shoulder to read it, my breath ghosting along the side of her neck. I spot the goosebumps across her skin. The rapid pulse in her throat.
“Good idea,” I tell her.
She turns, tilting her face up toward me. “Yeah?” she asks, her eyes meeting mine through a veil of dark lashes.
Our faces are impossibly close. If I lean in just a fraction of an inch … my gaze drops to her mouth and Cecilia’s tongue darts out to lick her lips.Fuck. Should I do it? I swallow hard, taking in her desire-laden gaze. Does she want me to kiss her? Is that why she’s looking at me like that? Or am I reading this wrong? What if she pushes me away?
Both of us are breathing hard, but neither one of us has moved. Her lips are parted, cheeks painted a captivating shade of pink. I dip my chin and am ready to say fuck it and lean in when there’s a loud thump on the staircase, followed by a muttered curse. Cecilia goes rigid, her eyes suddenly wide like a kid caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.
I swear to god I’m going to kill whichever one of my roommates is eavesdropping on the two of us right now.
“What was that?” Cecilia asks, using the distraction as a way to break whatever tension there is between us.
Desperation wraps thorn-covered vines around my chest, constricting my rib cage. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it alone and we can go back to what we were doing, or what I’m almost certain we were about to do.
