"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
"DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO REEVES?" Raf asks over my shoulder just as I'm glancing down at the jersey in my hands.
White and yellow lettering stands out against UCLA's bright blue, brandishing a number and my name. The jersey had been a startling sight from Reeves, who'd unceremoniously tossed them at Raf and I as soon as we'd appeared on his field. I'd had half the mind to dryly ask if he'd had them made and stored months in advance. Knowing Reeves' renewed vigour for football, it's entirely possible.
Raf wasted no time, stripping himself of the vest he'd been wearing then and there, falling into the blue like nothing.
I turn to him now on the field, the black of his tattoos peeking out from behind the blue that he wears just as easily as his ink, like a second skin. Carefully inked branches along his collarbone, curling like kindling in a fireplace right down the canvas of his arms, stand stark against the blue of the shirt and the brown of his skin. In the years I've known him, he's gone under the needle more than a dozen times and I'm near certain he's working towards a full sleeve. Plus, a few of them were dares. If I dared him to tattoo Lightning McQueen on his left ass cheek right this moment, the fucker is stupid enough to do it.
"He hasn't put down the whistle yet?" I guess, head turning to the sound. Raf fits me with a suspicious look as I do, like I'm singlehandedly to blame for Coach's newfound love for his whistle and overall attitude on the field.
I don't deserve all the blame.
Maybe some of it.
The man made me commit to twenty solo laps after the first practice just so I'd stop calling him Hank in front of his team. By the time I was done, the locker room was empty aside from waiting Raf who happily informed me that Reeves spent the entire duration of my run shit-talking me with him. Winded beyond breath, cheeks flushed and sweat clinging to my skin, I'd grinned.
He definitely likes me.
My gaze zeroes on Coach where he stands, bellowing across the field, hands on his hips, face contorted hotly. He reminds me of one of those cartoon characters two seconds before plumes of white steam starts pouring from their ears.
"Poor fucks better get moving before Coach blows a whole gasket," I muse cheerfully to Raf. "Who would've thought the man was a secret hard ass?"
His silver whistle sits between his lips and he's not the slightest bit hesitant to blow on it till he's red-cheeked, making all the men within his sphere of space flinch, all of them bleary-eyed and worn out from partying all weekend and today's Monday classes.
Reeves is having none of it.
He just keeps going at the whistle, the sound atrocious against my own ears even from our distance across the field.
