Page 74 of Ruthless Court

“It’s noon.”

“On Sunday.”

“Trash still exists on Sundays.”

She watches me carry the containers toward the small kitchen.

“You know what you should do?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“We should post something.”

I stop beside the counter.

“What?”

“A picture.” She sits up, pulling the sheet across her chest. “You and me. Maybe from bed, but tasteful.”

“No.”

“Not naked. Just enough skin to make it obvious.”

“To who?”

Her expression says the answer should be clear.

“Stella.”

I toss the containers into the trash.

“I’m not using you to make her jealous.”

Krista laughs.

“You’re not using me. I’m volunteering.”

“No.”

“It would be fun.”

“For you.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

That might be the most honest thing she has said since we met.

Krista and I don’t talk much. We trade insults during workouts, meet after parties, and spend a few hours pretending chemistry can fill every empty space.

When conversation does happen, it rarely survives longer than five minutes.

She talks about races, clothes, parties, and which athlete is sleeping with whom. I tried asking about a political science lecture once. She told me she hadn’t listened because the professor wore ugly shoes.

Last week, I mentioned a case study about collective bargaining and college athletics.

She kissed me to make me stop talking.

At the time, I didn’t mind.