You win

Sofia - party*

"Maybe?" 

"Maybe," I repeat, glaring at Stephan as we enter my dorm room. "You told Alix Russel, who clearly thinks I'm 'stealing you away,' maybe?"

"You didn't steal me," he rolls his eyes, placing my soccer bag down. "She knew where we stood." He takes a seat on my bed.

"That was a dickhead comment," I state, heading to the washroom, peeling off my sweaty jersey and shorts, leaving me in my black compression shorts and sports bra.

"More like a truthful statement," his voice carries to the washroom. I peek back into the room to see him now sitting on the floor, his head resting on the side of the bed.

"Well, I don't want to go," I say, coming into the room, my arms crossed. His eyes trail up until they meet mine.

"Neither do I, Delezar—"

"They're your friends," I retort, rolling my eyes. "Plus, I'm tired."

"You looked like you could play another forty minutes." He wasn't wrong, Id play another two games if I had to. "We pop our heads in, make our happy couple appearance, leave."

"Fine." I pause. "Whose party is it?"

"One of the football guys. Does it matter?" 

"No." Yes, Yes it does.

I rummage through my closet, trying to find something that won't make people question, "Why is he with her?" with a snotty expression. I settle on a tight black mini skirt and a matching cropped tube top. I head back into the washroom, taking the fastest shower known to mankind and giving my hair the quickest blowout my hands can manage. I put on the outfit and walk out of the room to see Stephan on his phone.

He lets his phone fall on his lap in response to my presence and his eyes dart to my face before they fall, trailing down my legs. "You sure you're not trying to leave with someone else?" His eyes narrow at me as he gets up, stepping closer.

"Relax." I walk over to the closet, putting on my wine leather bomber jacket and some crew socks.

"It wouldn't matter if you wore a garbage bag, Delezar," he says, his tone flat.

"Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment." My eyebrows shoot up, and my eyes trail from his black T-shirt down to his black denim jeans and sambas.

"Why, you catching feels?" His eyes narrow, and I roll mine before reaching into the back of my closet to grab my own pair of sambas. I choose to ignore his amused expression and instead walk toward the door as he trails behind me.

+++

This is not my idea of a post-game celebration. In fact, this is not my idea of anything remotely enjoyable. This apartment is worse than Cherry's. It's not just filled with athletes and girls pretty enough to be invited, but it's also small, which means the twenty - five or so people here are paying attention—to us, to me.

"I'll be right back," Stephan speaks into my ear over the moderately loud music before disappearing. To my shameful admission, I know my way around this apartment, I walk around till i'm in the living room. My eyes scan the room, spotting familiar faces I've seen on stat profiles, and good ones at that. There's Demarcus Trent—football, Max Popov—soccer, Hunter Freeman—hockey, and now Mike Dennis—tennis, who approaches me with a red solo cup in hand.

Even if you don't follow tennis, you know Mike, everyone knows Mike. To put it shortly, he makes most of these guys here look like Mother Teresa.