Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No. Of course not.” He drops his head back, looking exhausted by our exchange. “I just think that maybe you misinterpreted what she said.”

“Yeah. Because it’s really hard to confuse ‘nice to see you’ with ‘you’re going down, bitch.’”

His brow inches high on his forehead as a smirk hits his lips. “She didn’t say that.”

Annoyance claws at my patience and what’s left of my dignity. “It’s what she meant.”

“Who cares what she meant or what she thinks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you saw her or that you’re going to see her tomorrow?”

“It didn’t mean anything, and I didn’t want it to cause an issue between us.”

“It meant something to her, she was sure to tell me that today.”

Pax shakes his head. “She shouldn’t have talked to you.”

“You should go.”

“Poppy, stop. I don’t want to leave with things hanging like this between us. This isn’t us. Remember, we talk through stuff and discuss what’s bothering us.”

“That was when we had the rules, but you broke them.”

“No, it was when we realized that most relationships are based on a bunch of bullshit, and we didn’t want to follow that even if it was a ruse.”

“Have you been talking to her this entire time?” The question is out before my thoughts have time to censor any potential allegation.

He hesitates. “Not often, no.”

His admission is a gut punch that has me taking two steps back.

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“What’s it like?”

“We’re friends. We have a history.”

“How much have you been talking?”

“Are you asking if I’ve been sleeping with her behind your back?”

“So, now you can read through the lines?” I ask, my tone verging on bitchy. I don’t care to soften or clarify my message, though, because I’m currently reeling.

Paxton stops his blue gaze on me, revealing a fissure of pain as he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize who’s talking to him. “Now you’re being patronizing?”

I’m not trying to be. I’m not this kind of a person, but my defenses feel like an electric fence, ready to keep everything at bay, especially my own feelings. “Secrecy doesn’t build trust.”

“It wasn’t secrecy.” He places both hands on his head. “Dammit. I can’t have this conversation right now. I need to get to practice. I’m supposed to be meeting with Coach so we can discuss tape because the conference championship game is this weekend, and we have a lot of shit we need to go over.”

I’ve often admired Paxton for his drive and dedication that has led him to be one of the most popular picks in college football, but right now, it feels like a prophecy. It feels like I will always take second place. It feels like Mike accepting Arkansas without so much as a conversation or suggesting that I apply there as well.

“I have to go, too,” I say, though it’s a lie, and I feel childish for saying it. He doesn’t try to close the gap between us, and I don’t either.

“I’ll see you tonight?” We confirmed plans for the bonfire last night, which makes me question if he’s asking again because he doesn’t want me to come.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I need to get some things done, and I don’t think I’m in the mood to go out tonight.”

“It’s to celebrate the last game.”

I nod. “It sounds like Candace is excited to go with you.”

“Poppy.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him. “I’ve respected the way you’ve remained amicable with Candace. I liked that you didn’t throw her under the bus or talk trash about her even after everything ended between you guys, and I feel like I’ve done a pretty damn good job of remaining neutral here. But I’m telling you she’s meddling and I’m not here to play games. Why don’t you think about what you really want because the fact you can’t even defend me when she’s not here speaks volumes to me.”

He stares at me, jaw flexed, eyes sharp and intense, and then turns and leaves.

30

Paxton

“Dammit,” I yell. “Kostas, you need to be there.”

“Easy,” Lincoln says, patting my shoulder. “We’re three days away from the conference championship game. Nobody wants to get injured.”

“We’re going to lose the fucking championship game if we can’t take this seriously.”

Arlo cuts his gaze to me, hearing my words. His helmet shades his expression, but I can feel his glare.

Coach Harris claps his hands from the sidelines. “Kostas, you’re going to catch that pass on Saturday, right, son?”

Arlo looks toward him. “Yes, sir.”

Anger is still coating my tongue, and I want to point out my concerns when he had a weak defense on him, and he still moved like his feet were buried in the damn sand.

Coach nods. “Let’s head inside and finish with a couple of notes.”

Our practices have changed this week. Rather than doing the morning outside and the afternoon in a classroom setting, we’ve been splitting and doing half of the morning on the field and half of the afternoon on the field. Aside from light conditioning, we’re preserving our energy and strength for this weekend which will ultimately decide if we play in the national championship game.

Lincoln tries to catch pace with me, but I weave my way through the offensive line and into the locker room before he can. The last thing I need is more advice.

I listen without hearing anything, my feelings in turmoil over how I left things with Poppy. We’ve barely had a disagreement, and all my fights with Candace always seemed like seconds away from bloodshed—usually on her part. We fought and argued and hung up on each other and made hurtful accusations until one of us waved the white flag and called it quits. Thoughts of Poppy doing the same seem inevitable and foreign at the same time. I saw the same expressions—the doubt and question that had her eyes narrowed and anger that caused her clenched jaw—similar