9

-NORTH-

MALCOLM GOESout before me, and I hurriedly straighten my clothes. I have no idea how loud I was and the prospect of the diner hearing me is both terrifying and arousing at the same time.

I sort myself out as best as I can and hurry out.

When I get out, Becki is facing off with Malcolm, her fists clenched.

"What did you do?"

Malcolm smothers a smirk as he says, "Nothing he didn't want."

My whole body flushes hot.

Her eyes narrow. "I don't know what your issue is, Malcolm, but it's obvious you're jealous of him." She sticks out a finger like she's going to jab it into his chest. Malcolm gives her a cool stare that could stop a charging rhino, and she hesitates before she goes on, defiantly. Gotta say I'm impressed. I'd wither under that gaze. In fact, I have, several times. "Everyone knows he's the best player, and being a jerk isn't going to change it. Why can't you just leave him—"

Becki notices me and her eyes widen as they run over me. I tug at my clothes self-consciously, but I can't do anything to hide how disheveled I am. My hair is sticking up at all angles. Combined with the blush that I'm almost certain is turning my face bright red, and you'd have to be blind to think we were doing anything other than fighting, or fucking. Neither of which bode well.

"North! Are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," I say, hunching over slightly. My raging erection is huge and painfully obvious.

"What happened?"

Shit, what could I possibly say? "Nothing just . . . uh . . . football stuff." I clear my throat awkwardly. "I have to go."

"What? Why?"

"I just . . ." I glance at Mal for some kind of help. He looks half amused, half apologetic. But he can't dump her for me, as much as he'd probably enjoy it. How would that look? And besides, judging from the look on her face, she'd probably attack him.

I lick my lips, feeling like the world's hugest asshole. "You're really nice, Becki, but . . . I just don't think we're meant to be more than friends."

Becki's mouth hangs open as her face turns a shade of red and Malcolm crossed his arms, enjoying the show.

I rush on. "It's not you, you're great, I just have so much going on at the moment with school and football, I just don't have time for anything else right now. I swear it's nothing to do with you."

"What he means is, he's just not interested," Malcolm says.

I spin on him. He gives me an innocent look, like he was only trying to help. When I turn back, Becki looks like she's going to straight-up murder his ass.

"I'm really sorry, Becki, I have to go. You're great."

"Yeah, Becki, you're great," Mal says.

"Malcolm," I warn.

"North!" Becki snaps.

"North?" Another voice comes from behind us, and we all turn to see Paul Shanley pushing through the diner doors. "I cannot fucking believe this," he says, looking me up and down, his lips twisting and then turns to Malcolm. "You're screwing him in public now?"

The diner goes silent. Everyone turns to look at the four of us standing in the middle of the room and I want to shrink in on myself.

"Why are you following me?" Malcolm says to Paul.

"I just wanted a fucking burger. But I can't go anywhere now without you two rubbing it in my face!"

"Your face is the last place I want to rub anything," Malcolm hisses, aware of the eyes on us.

Paul's face darkens even more. I step forward, trying to soothe the situation before it gets out of hand, but my voice comes out a little too high and strained. "Hey, Paul? What's up?"

Paul jabs a finger at me. "You need to back the fuck off, Nolan."

Becki is staring, completely lost. Everyone in the diner is staring. And suddenly I know what a deer in headlights feels like just before it learns how to fly.

Malcolm moves. In two steps he's got his hands in Paul's top and he's hauling him back through the doors he just came in.

"Hey!" Paul shouts.

I follow close behind, feeling the eyes of everyone on my back.

Outside, the air is fresh and cold, and the lights from the diner spill out of the windows. Paul stumbles as Malcolm lets go and pushes him away, but manages not to fall down on the loose gravel. He recovers himself and comes back at Malcolm, furious. He looks like he's halfway between fighting and crying.

"What is your fucking problem?" Malcolm says.

"I'm not the one with the problem," Paul shouts back. "You're the one who dumped me over the stupid whipping thing. You're both as stuck up as each other!"

What's he talking about? What the hell is going on? "Whipping thing?" I ask.

Malcolm's eyes flash over to me, but he ignores the question. "Shut up, Paul," he says.

Paul's eyes narrow. "Why? Afraid everyone's going to find out you're fucking the football star? How about I tell the team about you guys, about all the dirty stuff you've been getting up to? He won't be so popular then."

I pale and glance back at the faces peering out through the diner windows, hoping to hell the glass is too thick for them to hear.

"I don't give a fuck who knows about us, it's not the fucking sixties anymore," Malcolm says.

Paul points at me. "You might not care, but he does."

Malcolm looks at me and sees the truth in my face. He snarls. "You know what a dumb idea it is to piss me off, Shanley. Or do you have a death wish?"

But Paul looks like he's past caring, I don't think he's even listening anymore. I start to wonder if he's had something to drink, and notice the glassy sheen to his eyes.

"You pretend not to care what anyone thinks, but I know you do. That's why you never stopped going on about him the whole time."

Malcolm clenches his fists so hard the muscles on his arms pop.

What is Paul talking about? "Who?" I ask.

Paul turns his attention to me.

"You think you're so fucking special because you can kick a ball. Just wait until he gets obsessed with the next hot guy that shows up and you'll be thrown out with yesterday's used condoms. Because that's all anyone is to him. A hole to fuck."

Paul wobbles on his feet and I hold my hands up.

"Come on, Paul, I think you should go home."

"Shut up, you fucking dumbass," Paul snaps at me, and Malcolm snarls like he's this close to putting his head through the wall, drunk or not.

I step forward and put my hand on Paul's shoulder. "Come on man, there's no need to—"

Paul knocks my hand off and shoves me hard in the chest. I stumble back and at the same time he throws a punch that goes wide over my head. The gravel shifts under my feet and I slam against the wall of the diner with an oof.

Malcolm moves in a blur. One second he's standing with his fists clenched, barely holding himself back. The next, his fist cracks into Paul's face, with his full weight behind it. Paul's head snaps to the side and he goes down like a sack of potatoes.

"Malcolm!" I shout.

Malcolm steps back, shaking out his hand. He looks like he wants to hit Paul again, but he manages to hold himself back. Paul groans and sits on his ass on the ground with one hand plastered to his face, his eyes dazed. Blood drips down his chin onto his pants in fat red splats.

Malcolm lunges again, and I think he's going to punch him a second time, but instead he grabs a handful of Paul's shirt, lifts him off the floor, and hisses into his face.

"Do. Not. Touch. Him." He throws Paul down again. "Now get the fuck out of here, before I break your fucking jaw."

Paul stumbles mutely to his feet and barges past him, clutching his face.

I stare at Malcolm. I've never liked violence but, fuck, that was so hot. He rubs his knuckles with one hand.

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

I nod, eyes still wide, and start to follow him before he stops short.

"No, you go to my place. I'll meet you there. Be ready for me." He looks pointedly at my erection, only slightly softened and still pressing against my pants. "And don't touch that."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to pick something up first."