15

Ryan

Serial Killer Text Messages

I didn't know what to think.

In the athletics dorm—Roman Villa but everybody just called it RV—I wasn't in the mood to talk to anybody. A handful of people were still in the lobby, trying to get my attention, but I walked past them and hit the elevators, swearing under my breath.

Stupid mistake, Ryan .

Where did all of that shit come from? Kassie had been in my car for ten minutes and I was practically on my knees, confessing my sins to her. Everything that I'd kept quiet about. My worries about being team captain, how rigid my routines were, Adam being a dumbass and fucking around—all of it.

"Christ," I muttered under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I needed to get a grip.

The restlessness didn't leave me when I wrestled my door open, slamming it shut behind me. It was too quiet inside. I was left alone with the fact that I'd been wound so tight, Kassie had pushed a single button, and I'd collapsed.

That's not team captain behavior .

I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and sat on my couch, staring listlessly at the TV that I never bothered to turn on. With what free time? Now, there was too much of it. I had tonight off and no practice tomorrow. What was I supposed to do with myself?

I could text Kassie .

My eyes flickered down to my phone, which had somehow ended up in my hand.

I should've been fuming at Adam and thinking about the Marrs Manwhore problem. Maybe calling an emergency meeting with Cleo. He was the whole reason I'd gotten roped into this fake relationship bullshit. But every time I tried to think about anything else, my thoughts drifted back to Kassie.

To those long legs over the counter. To her drunk smile as she shifted closer to me. The way her thighs had felt, even through the jeans. Her, in my car. Leaning forward, her eyebrows knitted in concern, the soft pink of her lips…

I grabbed the denim and shifted it uncomfortably.

My cock pressed against the zipper in my jeans. I couldn't even remember the last time I had a minute to jerk off. Which wasn't happening tonight. I needed to take advantage of the free time to get something done. But I ran my hand through my hair, remembering how she'd raised her eyebrow at me.

We can't have everything we want, can we?

Her words settled over me. I undid the button of my jeans and my breathing labored. What did I want? I wanted to pick Kassie up again. Slowly, I closed my eyes, just thinking about Kassie in those short shorts, thinking about her so close, I could practically taste her.

I took my cock out of my boxers and ran my hand along the shaft. It throbbed.

"No, goddammit." I pushed up from the couch and the ice pack hit the ground. Jacking myself off to my fake girlfriend wasn't the wise thing to do. It wouldn't cool me down. If anything, it'd send me straight to her bedroom.

I'd probably start using those corny Adam lines. Something about kissing my bruised knuckles better.

Kassie Ragar signed a contract with the Romans. She was off-limits as off-limits could be.

"Alright," I muttered, buttoning my jeans again. I reached for my phone. "Be professional."

I started typing in Kassie's name but it popped up instantly, starting with a C. That was weird. Didn't she spell her name with a K? There weren't any leftover messages from the conversation either. I must've messed that up somehow.

Fucking technology .

"Just say something," I said, pacing across the room. "Tonight ended up being a success. Being team captain is applauding the wins too."

That's right, I could treat her like a football player on my team.

RYAN: I WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

RYAN: IT WAS A SUCCESSFUL EVENING.

RYAN: GOOD JOB.

Perfect. Couldn't be better.

I sent off the messages and kept walking around my dorm, waiting for her to reply. I could see her starting to message me back, and then, silence. What the hell was taking her so long?

cassie: sorry captain

cassie: its adam

I stared down at the text messages. "What the fuck?"

cassie: i swiped your phone because i thought this would be funny

cassie: srry

cassie: sorry

"Goddamn, I'm going to beat the shit—" I tossed my phone to the couch. Adam Russell, biggest prankster on my football team, and now officially the teammate who'd be lifting weights until his muscles disintegrated. Fuck, I'd do worse. He would run pacer tests until he collapsed on the track.

The phone rang and I answered it, pissed off. " What? "

"Don't kill Adam, captain," the answer was quick.

"King." I rubbed my temple. "I'm not in the fucking mood right now."

Only silence came over the phone call and I swore under my breath.

"I'm not going to kill him," I said finally.

"And tell him not to send those messages," a voice carried over the phone.

"Is that Adam?" I demanded. "Tell him he's doing pacer tests until he wears out his sneakers."

"Oh, man."

King bypassed the comment. "Captain, don't send the texts to Kassie."

"What?" I frowned. "Why?"

"Don't send them."

"Why not? "

Only silence came over the phone call, and I started pacing in the living room again, irritation rolling off of me. I knew what King was implying. And I didn't want to hear it.

"I'm not interested in Kassie," I snapped.

"Those are weird fucking messages." Adam's voice was muffled through the phone. "Serial killers send stuff like that. And really horny dudes online. He's got it bad for the art girl."

"Hey, I call her the art girl," I warned him and stopped walking entirely like they were in the room to see. "You don't call her that. I call her that. Nobody else gets to call her that."

The line was quiet again and I sighed, moving to the front door and back again.

"Fuck," I muttered, running my hand over my face. "Okay. I'm not interested in Kassie but I shouldn't send the text messages…because…they give off the wrong impression? If I was even interested in that kind of thing. Which—to be fucking clear—I'm not. But if I was…I should not send the messages?"

"Yeah, tell him that's right."

"That's right," King grunted in agreement with Adam.

Goddamn, this is so complicated.

"So what do I send?" I demanded.

"Tell him not to send anything," Adam said. "All of that just sounded desperate. He might as well be throwing rocks at her window. Asking for a crumb of pussy."

"Nothing?" I asked, dumbfounded. "But how do I—what am I—not that I—"

Adam sighed. "This is painful."

King didn't say anything, but I could practically see his face, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I have important work to do," I told both of them. "Meetings and paperwork and shit. Stay out of trouble. And Adam, I'm still pissed off."

Before either of them could say anything, I ended the phone call and stretched back on the couch. The fake relationship was supposed to be an easy way to get the media off my back. Nobody said it was going to be like this.