The Winning Shot

CHAPTER EIGHT

XANDER

"I still don't understand why you don't like the idea," Cassie says when I reach the table with our coffees in one hand and the disgustingly sweet muffin she chose for herself in the other.

I sigh, tired of going over the same conversation over and over again.

We met during my first week on campus, and somehow we instantly clicked, which is ridiculous, considering that she couldn't possibly be more different from me with her bubbly personality, talkativeness, and glass-half-full attitude. But maybe that's why I like her.

"I told you, like...six times already. One more, and I'll start to think you're either deaf or have anterograde amnesia."

"Wow, big boy using big words," she says, her tone playful as per usual. She's the sweetest person on Earth, but a cocky bastard at the same time, and she'll give you a hard time just to watch fuck with you, but she'd never turn a blind eye to your struggles. "Yeah, you told me, but none of it made sense. He wants to make peace and be friends with you, so forgive me for not comprehending how it is a bad thing."

"Not a bad thing, just an inconvenience."

That's a lie, obviously, but I'm not keen on telling her why the thought of spending two hours in a room not much bigger than a broom closet with Everly makes me want to puke. Not out of disgust but out of nerves. And fear.

There's no point in denying that I'm fucking terrified of what this thing between us might turn into. The two extremities are equally daunting, only with one small difference—one will destroy me beyond repair.

I can't afford to let myself get attached to someone who's the spitting image of the guy who made my life a literal hell. Not his appearance, no, apart from being ripped to a similar degree, they look nothing alike. I mean personality-wise. Because this whole golden retriever energy Everly's got going on—always cheery, always in a playful mood, always going with the flow, and only letting his true colors show when you rub him the wrong way, which seems to be my special skill—he got that too. Hell, it was the very reason why I idolized him so much, acting like an attention-starved dog whenever he was around, silently begging Notice me, see me, feel the same way I do.

He noticed, and that was the moment I signed my own death warrant. I got all the wrong attention from him and watched my dignity go down the drain along with the water from the shower, our sweat, and a few drops of my blood. I'm still wondering where those came from.

"Xander?" she all but yells, pulling my head from under the metaphorical water.

"What?" I have no idea how much time I just spent in my high school locker room, but judging by the look on Cassie's face, a little too long to brush it off as getting lost in thought.

"I asked you a question. Four times, in fact. But your mind is clearly somewhere else."

"Sorry," I say, lowering my gaze to the crumbs on her side of the table.

But I still feel those big green eyes on me, starting straight into my soul.

I feel like an asshole for asking her to hang out and then ignoring her. Not on purpose, but details don't really matter here.

"You're easier to talk to after a beer, you know?" The lack of animosity in her tone is a good sign. Almost good enough to take some of the guilt off my shoulders. "At least then you were actually talking to me. Hey, maybe that's what you need to, you know, loosen up a little. Otherwise, I'm afraid the staff will have to call 9-1-1 on you two."

She takes a sip of her coffee and then another one, waiting for my not-so-clever answer.

"It was two beers." Perhaps even three, which didn't even make me tipsy, let alone drunk. My alcohol tolerance is unbelievably high for reasons I'm not proud of. "And trust me, it will only make things worse. I'm not easy to be around when the booze kicks in."