Lucas Mabry wants it all.
He wants a girl, team captain, and the popularity that comes with it.
Unfortunately, the new girl wants nothing to do with him and he turns to the only person he thinks will help.
Nikki Young.
His worst enemy.
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Lucas
"What's wrong?"
I look up from the plate of over-seasoned steak. "Nothing," I mumble. I grab a piece of steak and shove it in my mouth. The awful over-spiced and salty taste awaken my gag reflex. I quickly open a water bottle and chug it down. Fortunately, the water washed down all the seasoning and made the steak edible.
"You look down." My dad draws the chair out from the other side of the dinner table. He glances around and leans over with a glint in his eyes. "And you ate your mom's cooking like it was good." He whispers, looking over his shoulder. "Frankly, I'm considering calling an ambulance." A humorous grin appears on his face.
I crack a smile.
He leans away, skimming my face. "Now I know something's wrong." He drops his phone on the table, places his elbows on the table, and brushes his mustache with his thumbs. "Do you want to tell me?" He places his chin on his palm and lifts an eyebrow.
Wow. He looks like my father but is acting like my mother.
He takes my silence as an answer.
He nods, leaning back, and grabbing his phone. "Okay. I'll be in my office if you want to talk." He smiles at me.
He walks away, humming a tune.
I don't think so. Telling him would get my butt kicked. If I tell my mom, she will cry, give me a long lecture, and ground me. Logan will laugh and give unexpected, useless suggestions. Julian will get angry, call me an "idiot" and give me an answer I won't like. Carter would just laugh. And Nikki... I don't know her that well yet.
And I don't want to hurt her.
I toss the steak in the trash (sorry mom) and wash the plate, utensils, and the rest of the remaining dishes. I gulp down my water before hurling the bottle into the recycle bin.
I trudge to my dad's office and stare at the brown door with a frown. The side of my face touches the cold wood, listening for any signs of life. A cough startles me.
My palm runs through my knotted curls. Exasperated, I roughly yank my fingers through.
I'm being dramatic.
I'm being a fool.
And I deserve to be kicked.
Sighing in defeat, I twist the knob and peek inside the room. My father is at his desk, darting his eyes around the screen with a disgruntled expression.
An unpleasant shiver runs through my body.
He's busy. He's busy. He's always busy.
"I'm not busy." He doesn't look away from his computer. "I'm reviewing the notes of a case." He rubs his eyes. "I think I need glasses."
"Cool." A foot moves inside. "Is that going to take long?"
My dad seems to sense my reluctance. He moves his finger on the mousepad and I hear the sound a computer makes as it is being shut down.
