3. Nikki

3

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Omar has officially cutme off from purchasing cheesecake. Literally. I stopped in this morning at Lolo's Bake Shoppe to make good on my failure to deliver a love confession, and the worker took one look at my name on my debit card and put the slice of cheesecake I ordered away. She wouldn't let me get the cookie either. Coffee or tea, and a bagel—plain. Those were her instructions. Because those aren't things Omar likes.

He knows the sweet treats are my crutch with him. Like a get-out-of-jail free card, with excessive calories.

"Seriously? You called Lola's?" I lean on the front desk in the dorm lobby and slide him the paper bag with a single plain bagel inside.

He eyes the sack suspiciously, then unfolds the top to peek inside.

"Yeah, no. Hard pass," he says, tossing it back at me. I clutch it to my chest.

"Well, it could have been a piece of cheesecake, but noooo!" I bend down and tuck the bag inside my backpack, knowing I'll probably nibble at it later when I'm in my accounting class. I should have a solid business sense, but I really hate numbers that aren't associated with beats. My first indulgence if I make a go of this career will be to hire my own accountant.

"I can buy my own damn cheesecake, thank you. What I want from you is the excuse. I didn't get the full story. All you said was you'd make it up to me with cheesecake, then you slammed your door and turned up music by that girl who dances weird." He leans back in the rolling chair behind the front desk and threads his hands behind his neck as he stares me down.

"First, her name is Lorde, and she dances awesome," I say, ignoring all evidence otherwise. It's women like Lorde who pave the way to let girls like me be as strange and outside the box as we want.

"And second, he unloaded a lot of personal baggage on me before I got to say anything." I flatten my hands on the counter and tilt my head to stare right back at him. Hard.

"Really? Before you said hihe just launched right into his personal issues with you?" His smug, flat-lined mouth is annoying.

"Okay, no. I said hi when I sat down, but excuse me for not leading with ‘By the way . . . I'm in love with you.'"

"By the way isn't necessary," Omar says, keeping his stoic expression in place. I knock over a cup of mini-pencils by my elbow, and they tumble around the computer keyboard, some falling into his lap. He gives in and laughs.

"Okay, fine. I relent. Definitely not great timing. But today—" He drops the pencils he's collected back in the cup and returns it to his desktop, just out of my reach. "Today is a new day."

His grin is obnoxious.

"Why are you so positive all the time?" I grumble, bending down to snag the strap of my backpack.

"Because I have a date with a lacrosse player," he brags.

I can't help the tight-lipped smile that starts to dimple my cheeks. My mission may have been a failure, but Omar had great success.

"And does this man have a name?" I quirk my brow as I sling my bag over my arms and tug it tight against my back.

"Brian. And he's pre-law. So, you know . . . we could be quite the power couple." He waggles his brows.

I point to the coffee stain in the center of his T-shirt.

"Well, you're gonna have to learn how to use a sippy first. Not a lot of power couples walking around with dribble shirt," I laugh out.

He rolls his eyes at me and grabs the napkin that he's clearly already used once this morning in an attempt to blot the stain.

"It's the damn travel cup lid. I don't get why people are so obsessed with these things." He motions to the handled cup to his right, then tucks his chin as he blots his otherwise perfect, crisp white T-shirt.

"Fair point," I say.

While he rubs the stain, which is really only making it worse, I pull my hair out of its tie and run my fingers along my scalp, straightening out the wave that always gets left behind. I pull my Chapstick from my back pocket and run it over my lips, then pull out my phone to check my face in the reverse camera.

"Yeah, not today," I say with a heavy sigh.

"You look gorgeous," my friend says. I flutter my eyes to him and purse my lips.

"I look like I haven't washed my hair in two days and got up early to hit the rec center because I wanted to avoid running into my fake boyfriend who I secretly wish was my real boyfriend." I shake my head and laugh at my ridiculous situation.

"Well, you're gorgeous enough for Alex to be willing to play along. So that's something," Omar reassures.

I shrug, taking the tiny win. I guess it's something that he finds me attractive enough to be into flirting. It's just that I'm not sure how to act around him. Which is simply nuts because Alex is the one person I have never felt self-conscious around. But now I am going to overthink everything. Like the stupid lump in my hair from a ponytail. I relent and put my hair back in the tie, then tell Omar to wish me luck before I take off toward the study hall room attached to the library.

Alex and I never miss a session. As an athlete, he has to log hours every week, and I've always gone with him to take advantage of the tutors and to force myself to stay on top of the homework assignments I don't love. I have an accounting project to work through today, and I'm not looking forward to it. Maybe it will distract me enough to not break down into a fit of girl giggles around my best friend.

Per usual, Alex is the only one in the room when I arrive. He's always the first to check in. It's one of his best character traits—the man is always early, and he never does anything halfway. He commits with his entire being, even to his academics. I'm not sure he's going to need his business degree once he gets drafted, but I have no doubt he'll graduate with honors. Me, however? I'll graduate with an incredibly lopsided set of transcripts. On the sound engineering side—straight As. General studies? Sometimes a C gets the job done.

Alex has his headphones on as I enter the room, his back to me. I find myself suddenly wondering how to sit with him. How do I start this interaction? What would I normally do?

How do I not remember?

I pause just inside the door and take a deep breath, letting the weight of my backpack sink into my shoulders. Shaking off the weird tingles prickling along my neck, I resolve to act as though nothing has changed at all. It's not like I told him how I feel. That . . . that would have made things weird. Maybe this was a blessing.

Moving in behind him, I poke his sides with my fingers, right where he's ticklish. He yelps and stands from his chair as he drops his headphones to his neck.

"Why? Every damn time!" His laugh fills the space and soothes my nerves. This is how we act. Who we are.

I shrug.

"Because I can." I toss my bag on the table and take the seat across from him.

He glares at me as he sinks back into his chair, then pulls his headphones from his neck to tuck them into his bag.

"You are the only person in the world who is not ticklish. At all. And it isn't fair." He points at me and dims his eyes. It's one of my favorite expressions he makes. I call this the playful challenge look. It's something he does for me and his mom. And I've never seen him make this face for anyone else.

"You can hit a fastball. I can withstand hours of tickle torture. I mean, it's an even trade," I say.

He chuckles and shakes his head before slinking down to get back to reading his text. He's resting his head on his fist, his eyes flickering as they scan the page, and I let myself spy on him for a few seconds before pulling out my homework. I mimic his position, the toes of our shoes touching under the table. Alex's foot has always been my doorstop. His legs are longer than mine, and without ever discussing it, we've fallen into a natural state anytime we sit across from one another where I get to rest my foot on or against his. It keeps me from sliding completely off the chair when I slump down. It's a trick I worked out in junior high in a booth at the local Denny's, and we've been doing it ever since.

We work like this in silence for about fifteen minutes before the quiet is broken by the hard laughter of the rest of the team filing into the room. Some of the football players come in here for the morning sessions too, which means it's always fairly crowded, and it doesn't take long for the other seats at our table to fill up.

"Hey, Nik. What's up?" Cole reaches a fist across the table to me and I sit up tall to tap my knuckles into his. He's my favorite of Alex's teammates. They've shared a small house together across the street from campus for the last two years. They're a good match—both more serious than others on the team. And I like that sometimes when Alex and I don't want to be the lives of a party, we can retreat to their place away from the rowdy baseball house where six of the other guys live.

Last month, Alex and I bailed on the holiday party when the drinking got a little out of hand. We fell asleep watching A Charlie Brown Christmas instead of spending the night throwing up in a bathroom. My head was nestled against his chest, and I let his heartbeat lull me to sleep. My gaze drifts to that spot on his chest and the tight fit of his long-sleeved white T-shirt. I've never questioned whether or not that spot on his chest is mine when I need it.

Alex's cough breaks my trance and my eyes flit up to his. He smirks.

"You spacing out there, Nik?" He drops his chin a touch, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. I think he realizes I was staring at him. Oh my God, was I making a swoony face?

"I hate accounting," I retort, my answer swift.

Alex pushes his textbook toward me and spins it around.

"Wanna trade?"

My eyes scan the first line: A study in international marketing completed by the firm of Kaufman and Stokes reveals that the concept of cryptocurrency has both advantages and risks. I push the book back to him and make a gagging sound.

"No, thank you."

He winks as he spins his book back around. I bet he practiced that wink before he first deployed it. I think he started doing it his junior or senior year of high school. I vaguely recall some teen movie we were all into where the guy every girl was crushing over winked like that. Alex made it his own, though. It's like a token he gives out to make hearts flutter. At least, that's what it does to me. I'm good about swallowing the butterflies when they creep up, however, and hiding how happy these tiny gestures make me.

God, Nikki. At this point you might as well hang Alex's poster on your dorm room wall.

Alex is again engrossed in his boring-as-hell text. I glance up and shake my head, admonishing myself for letting the last twenty-four hours derail as badly as they have. I sit up straight and steel myself to be brave, my lips parting and the words I'm really not into Brayden about to fall from my mouth when the only person, perhaps on the planet, who can make my insides boil with jealous rage saunters behind Alex.

Alicia's gaze hits me briefly as she brushes her fingertips along Alex's shoulder and the back of his neck. He startles, his head jerking around. I bet he was expecting to find one of his teammates fucking with him, but instead, he got his former . . . whatever he and Alicia were. He relaxes back into his seat and twists to open his stance to her. She's standing closer than any normal acquaintance would, hovering on the verge of being between his knees as he looks up at her. Alicia's glossy red lips flash that superior smirk. That look, it's for me.

"Hi, Alicia," I say, leaning forward and resting both elbows on the table as I prop my chin on my fists. I give her a different kind of grin, the kind that says you're a bitch.

"Nicole," she drones, using my formal name, which not even my mother uses.

"Hmm," I say with a slight nod, acknowledging the ice between us. I've never liked Alicia. I don't trust her. I'm certain that sentiment is mutual. It's not the kind of thing she and I need to hash out so we can be friends. We're too different. And I don't want to be her friend. I want to graduate and never see her face again. Three years of maturity and growth does wonders for the backbone. At least it did for me when it comes to dealing with girls like Alicia.

Alex, however, only cuts people out of his life if they've cheated on his mom. And since he and Alicia have history, he's always kind to her. Which is noble of him, and makes him . . . him. All my jaded self sees is the girl who manipulated me into kissing my best friend for the first time in front of her, simply so she could diminish it. And I'd bet my life on the fact she has a similarly unflattering opinion of me.

"You coming to the game Friday? Opening day." Alex glances at me, that twinkle in his eyes. He's still a kid when it comes to his excitement for baseball.

"Yeah. I'd love to," Alicia basically squeals. The study room monitor hushes her.

"Great. See ya then," Alex says, sending her off with a nod. And then . . . a wink. Dammit. He gave her one too.

The muscles around my mouth twitch, and I know I'm doing a poor job of hiding my reaction. The pursing of my lips deepens at the corners, and I can't get it in check before Alex glances back to me.

"Oh, stop. You never liked her. If she shows up Friday, be nice."

I shake with a short, silent laugh. It's not like I'm going to start a brawl or anything. Now, imagine one? Sure. I'll imagine clawing her eyes out all day. But, acting on those impulses? No, even I know it wouldn't be my best look. And it would be from a really bitter place. But I don't have to worry about any of that.

"She's not showing up for your game," I toss out, rolling my eyes and forcing myself to focus on my homework.

"She might," he says in an offhanded way. I know he's not really trying to defend her, but rather trying to soften me. I'm irritable, though, so I react, snorting another quick laugh.

"What's that for?"

I close my eyes for a second and exhale through my nose. I hate when he calls me out for being snarky. But also, I'm not wrong. And maybe if I told him how I felt yesterday, or the day before, or any day we've been together, then I wouldn't be lugging around the jealousy beast all the time. The one that refuses to give Alicia any credit for supporting Alex's dreams.

I open my eyes and meet his gaze.

"Because when you dated, she never showed up for a game. Not once." I shrug as Alex stares on, squinting slightly in suspicion.

"Nah, she came to a few."

I shake my head, and a suffocating weight crushes my chest. Alex's expression is caught between serious and playful, the faint curve to his lips softening as his eyes try to read me.

"How do you know?" he finally asks.

My lips twist, a strange invisible force pressing me on all sides. For a beat, I consider shrugging it off and saying maybe I'm wrong. But I'm not wrong. And more than that, it hurts a little that he doesn't know why I'm so certain. I've never missed one.

"Because I would have seen her there."

His eyes flinch slightly. It's enough to spark a shift in his overall expression, the playful look in his eyes morphing to reflect enlightenment, maybe. Doubt, perhaps.

Or—what has my stomach in knots—the realization that I have always shown up. For him. And maybe there's a deeper reason why.

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