Page 5 of Studs Up
Monroe looked to Prince.
“Oh, look,” Monroe said. “Something else to do.” And the two of them walked off without any particular direction. Just wanted to be somewhere else. I watched him go, tight jeans and all. How did people move in those?
We sat through an orientation, and everyone got out their phones to accept an invite to a group chat, something I rarely engaged in, and immediately turned off the notifications. Some people, Charlemagne, were awfully chatty.
Dinner was at a bar with the kind of food that would make me sick. Charlemagne was an enigma. He scarfed down two burgers and a basket of fries, and I guarantee he would be perfectly fine tomorrow.
If I did that, I would feel like two lead weights trudging through peanut butter. A salad for me, then.
He spent the off season in France and met a lovely young woman. He showed us a picture of her. The woman looked like a twig. Marcel and I exchanged a look that screamed, how the hell had he not crushed that woman?
Marcel spent his off season in the Maldives. I didn’t have much to contribute to that particular conversation. I spent my offseason trying to figure out where the fuck we went wrong. No one wanted to hear about that.
About halfway through our meal, Prince and Monroe strolled in. There would be no peace and no escaping him.
They took a table across the bar near the pool tables, and women immediately made themselves available. They were rooming together, and I wouldn’t put it past either of them to sneak a woman or three back to their room for a little late night shenanigans.
It irked me, but then again, I had no idea why I was even thinking about what Monroe did in his private time. It didn’t matter to me. I swear.
“Pool?” Marcel asked.
I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, Monroe was there. But he was off, and Charlemagne didn’t share my reservations. I followed because I would not be left sitting alone while women circled. I wasn’t interested.
By the time I meandered through the crowd, Marcel had already broken the rack of balls, and they scattered. Charlemagne went next, and I leaned against a post and watched.
Two women sidled up to Prince and Monroe and began to flirt. Irritation simmered in my skin. The four laughed at something funny Monroe said. The sound was claws on a chalkboard. It vibrated through my body. This was why I didn’t like being near him.
Eventually, their attention turned to the game of pool, and they started to cheer Charlemagne on. Marcel’s eyes connected with mine, and he rolled them. I agreed but did not return the gesture.
Charlemagne lost and good naturedly, too. He congratulated Marcel on a good game.
“Here’s to Guardian superiority,” Marcel lifted his beer, and I cheered with him.
“That’s big talk for a guy that can’t defend a snail,” Monroe said, and Prince snickered. Marcel’s skin turned bright red. Monroe was right. But Marcel was my teammate and a good guy.
“You think you can do better?” I quipped. Monroe turned his cool grey eyes to me, and unexpected heat flooded my veins.
“You bet your ass I can,” he said.
“Prove it,” I gestured to the table.
I let him break the balls. He sank a striped ball first, and then it was my turn.
“Maybe if you win, we can make a little napkin trophy for your empty shelf,” he said. Leaning his hip on the table and crossing his arms.
“I already got a trophy on my shelf,” I said. “What’s on your shelf?”
“By the end of this season, your balls,” he countered. Alex snorted.
“Got to win the games first,” I gave him a shove off the table to take my turn. “To do that, you have to score goals.” My ball came to rest on the edge of the pocket. Straightening up, I propped my cue between my feet and rested my forearm on the tip.
“How many goals did you score last season, Monroe?”
“Enough,” he retorted.
“Not enough to get you to the final.”
He turned beat red.
