Page 68 of Blocked Score

This is what it’s like living with Tuck and Sebastian. I came down to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and they’re in the living room, ignoring whatever they have playing on the TV while they argue aboutthis.

I sigh as I walk past them, tuning out their voices. Sebastian’s really something else. One minute he’s talking about waiting for a book of medieval French poetry he ordered online, the next he’s arguing with Tuck about pubic hair.

Then again, none of us in this house are normal. I’m maybe the closest to the mark, but there’s nothing normal about theway I’ve carried a flame for a girl I had a fling with a year and a half ago and haven’t been able to stop moping around since she told me she wants to consider what happened between us in bed as aweird one-time thing.

Even though it’s the right thing to do. Obviously. I couldn’t keep fooling around with her without getting attached, and I don’t want an unrequited attachment on my part to make her feel awkward about living with me.

So, she one hundred percent had the right idea. I should be thankful she was the voice of reason. Instead, I feel forlorn. It’s pathetic, honestly.

Doesn’t help that I had a shitty practice today. I worked one-on-one drills against Jamie and he wiped the ice with me, deke-ing past me at will. I haven’t had a repeat of that one pathetic performance I turned in a couple games ago, but my poor form at practice today sharpens the edge of worry inside me.

When I open the refrigerator door, there’s a can of beer next to the bottles of water that looks awfully tempting right now.

What the hell? Why not. We don’t have a game or practice tomorrow. I crack it open and suck down a big gulp.

I decide to polish it off standing in front of the open door and grab a second. I take a smaller sip of my current can, already feeling some of the tension release in my muscles.

The doorbell rings.

“Yo, Lane, you gonna get that?” Sebastian calls comically loud from the couch.

“Yeah, we’re busy,” Tuck chimes in.

I roll my eyes. “Lazy assholes,” I grumble. I walk to the door with the beer in my hand and open it.

My brow furrows when I look past the doorway.

Harper’s standing on the porch. That part isn’t weird. She comes over to visit Scarlett pretty often.

What is weird are the two guys at her side.

“Uh, hey, Harper. What’s up?”

“Harper?” Sebastian’s voice sounds from the couch. “Ugh.”

“Don’t worry, Sebby,” she calls to him. Tuck snickers at the nickname. “I won’t be long. We’re just picking up Scarlett to go out.”

We.

Harper and two guys.

Picking up Scarlett.

To go out.

Two guys.

Two girls.

The aluminum can in my grip crinkles. Even if I weren’t good enough at math to help Scarlett with her calculus course, I could put two and two together here.

My gaze slices between the two guys. One medium height, one a little on the tall side. The taller guy has curly brown hair with a douchebag mustache. The shorter guy has shorter black hair and tattoos peeking from the collar of his flannel shirt. Both guys look like they belong in Brooklyn or something, writing blogs nobody reads while their parents pay their rent.

“Well, it’s cold outside, so come in,” I say. I wouldn’t mind the two guys freezing their asses off out there, but I wouldn’t treat Harper like that.

Even though Sebastian would.

Speaking of Sebastian, he’s walking toward us in the foyer. Tension radiates from him.

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