Bad guy (REWRITTEN)

Chapter 28

Two days later.

The locker room smelled like sweat, rubber, and the faint chemical tang of whatever cleaner they used on the floors sharp enough to cut through the lingering heat of the gym. I stood there in my sports bra and shorts, towel half-draped over my shoulders, hair still damp from the shower, when the door creaked open behind me.

I didn't need to turn around to know it was her.

Her footsteps were slow, deliberate, the way they always were when she wanted me to feel the approach before the touch. The air shifted cooler, heavier, charged. Then her hand was on my hip—cold fingers curling into the bare skin just above the waistband of my shorts. I shivered despite myself. She spun me around with effortless strength, not rough, just inevitable, and pinned me back against the lockers. Metal bit into my spine through the thin fabric of my bra.

Billie looked exactly the same as she had all week: blue eyes steady, mouth relaxed in that half-smirk that said she'd already won before the game even started. Her gaze dragged over my face like she was cataloging every flicker every quick breath, every stubborn set of my jaw. She lifted her free hand, brushed a single wet strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness, then pressed her palm flat to my cheek. Her skin was still cool from the outside air. It felt like a brand.

"Now you're coming to your senses" she murmured, voice low and rough around the edges. "I knew you still liked me. But at the same time... I'd never really know, right? I'm not some psych major. I can't read micro-expressions or whatever" Her thumb stroked once, slow, along my cheekbone. "Still. I know you better than anyone. And I liked how you showed it today"

She leaned in until her lips were at my ear, breath warm against the shell.

"Even if you always win on the court" she whispered, "I always know better. Because you're me, Anna. And I'm you"

Then she kissed my cheek not quick, not teasing. She rested her mouth there, soft and deliberate, lips parted just enough that I felt the faint heat of her exhale soak into my skin. It lasted too long. Long enough that my pulse hammered against her palm, long enough that my hands twitched at my sides, wanting to grab her hoodie and pull her closer or shove her away—I wasn't sure which. Maybe both.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were dark, pupils blown, that cool detachment cracking just enough to show the hunger underneath. She gripped my hip one more time—fingers digging in briefly then stepped away.

She gave me that look before she turned: slow drag of her gaze from my mouth to my eyes and back again, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. Seductive. Certain. A promise.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I stood there breathing hard, cheek still tingling where her mouth had been, hip bruised in the shape of her fingers. The locker room felt too quiet after she left. Too empty.

Friday's P.E. class couldn't come fast enough.

And that was the worst part.

I hated how much I wanted it to.

I hated how every time I closed my eyes I saw her looking at Juana the same way she'd just looked at me like she was memorizing, like she was claiming, like she was already planning the next move. I hated how the jealousy still tasted bitter and hot in my throat, how it made me want to march across the field and drag her away from everyone else just to remind her who she used to look at like that.

But mostly I hated how right she was.

I was still hers.

Even when I told myself I wasn't.

Even when I watched her flirt and laugh and touch someone new.

Even when I spiked that volleyball straight into Juana's face and felt a vicious little thrill when it connected.

I won the point.

I won the game.

But Billie had already won something else.

And she knew it.

Friday loomed like a storm cloud on the calendar  two more days until P.E., until the gym, until the locker room again, until whatever came next. I told myself I'd ignore her. Walk past without flinching when her shoulder bumped mine in the hall. Pretend the eye contact in class didn't burn. Act like her hand on my hip hadn't left a phantom print I could still feel hours later.

But deep down I knew the truth.

I wasn't ignoring her.

Waiting for the moment I finally stopped pretending I didn't want her to.

Because love—real, messy, fucked-up teenage love—doesn't let you walk away clean.

It drags you back.

Kicks you in the ribs.

And whispers in your ear that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Even when it hurts like hell.

Especially when it hurts like hell.

Friday couldn't come fast enough.

And god help me I was already counting the hours.