Page 1 of Pucking Matt
Chapter 1
“You don't remember me?” I ask, clutching his order like it's a lifeline. Or a weapon. At this point, I'm not sure which I prefer.
Matthew Pearson stares at me, his blue eyes widening slightly. Oh, he remembers. I can see the recognition flicker across his face as he stares into my eyes, followed quickly by something else. Gratitude? Impossible. This is Matthew freaking Pearson, the bane of my high school existence, the reason I was labeled out of control, a menace, and worse, a domestic abuse case.
Yeah, fuck you, Matt.
“I don't know who the hell you are,” he says, his voice smooth as butter. Lying butter.
“Still an asshole, I see. Better be careful there. I’ve been practicing my left hook since the last time I saw you.”
Bastard shakes his head, dumbfounded. He’s staring at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
He got me suspended merely weeks before high school graduation. It was years ago when I was a senior in high school,and he was a junior with an obnoxious mouth on him. I don’t regret what I did back then and not now.
I resist the urge to dump his protein smoothie over his stupidly attractive head. When did that happen, by the way? When did Matthew "Douchecanoe" Pearson transform from a gangly, acne-ridden teen intothis? It's like puberty hit him with a sledgehammer.
Not that it matters. Not that I care. Not that I've been sneaking glances at him since I noticed him, wondering if he still has that scar on his elbow from when I physically attacked him.
Yeah, I remember that day like yesterday. The adrenaline rushing through me was thick. I hadn’t been in a fight before. My nickname in school became Mike Tyson. They also called me a crazy bitch. I might have tackled him down the stairs.
“Here's your order,” I say, plastering on my best 'I definitely didn't just fantasize about tackling you again' smile.
He grabs the bag, and I think he purposely touches my hand. Is that his way of saying he knows exactly who I am? Or is the universe laughing at me? Both seem equal at this point.
I watch as he notices my artistic addition to his takeout bag. The smirk that spreads across his face really makes my hand twitch. But I’m older now. A more mature version of myself, so I wouldn’t dare hit him again, but maybe if he said those same disrespectful words to me, I would.
“Asshole?” he questions. “You got the wrong guy.” He smiles with cash in between his two fingers, showing me how grateful he is. He keeps the smirk on his face, leaving a fucking tip in the jar.
His face may have gone through puberty, but his personality is still the same.
“Have a great day, Matthew,” I mutter as he walks out. He ignores me, of course, walking to his truck.
Oh, I see him meeting with a cute girl. That poor female has no idea what she’s gotten herself into with him.
Matthew Pearson.
What do I know about him?
Too much.
For one, he can take a hit.
He’s a mommy’s boy. He’s privileged because his mom slept around until she started dating Mr. Cress, married the poor guy, and moved in with him.
Matt hated his stepbrother, Grey, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.
Rumor says he lost his virginity inside of the hockey rink.
He’s rude, self-serving, and cocky.
Motherfucker turns around, catching my stare, before he steps into his nice Toyota Tacoma forest-green truck. His face is neutral, blank. I imagine he’s reiterating everything he knows about me too.
After our fight, we found out every possible detail of each other like any angry, raging hormonal teenager would. I swear he even created a fake account to troll me online. I assume this because that’s exactly what I did.
Yes, he’s the biggest piece of shit I know.
Sorry, that’s offensive to shit, actually. He’s worse.
