Carter Grant. A soccer player, and more importantly, just a player. Why fall in love again, when he can just screw other girls over? Though, Carter isn't that big of an ass. Even though one girl might disagree.
Nova Chetti. Marketing major, and dil...
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That soccer game was literal hell.
Who the fuck even created soccer? If it was the English, it should have stayed there. Ever since freshman year I've had to go to these boring games and not once have I been into soccer.
Why don't I just not go? Because if I don't go I have no excuse, I won't hang out with my friends as much and if the guys lose and I come all perked up to Jordan's I seem like a bitch.
I don't really mind being a bitch. I mind being the insensitive bitch who couldn't spare her Sunday to watch a soccer game that her friends were involved in.
So unfortunately almost every weekend and every few weekdays of my life since freshman year has been clogged up by soccer games.
Why couldn't I make friends that played hockey? I used to fucking love The Mighty Ducks.
"You said you weren't watching the game Chetti." I've somehow been roped into driving the guys I live with to Jordan's.
You know, I don't think I can ever have pasta after this series of events. Pasta brings me bad luck.
It brought me bad luck once. Once enough to make me never want to eat pasta again. Cook pasta again. I can't live without pasta.
Carter asked me some dumb question about if I enjoyed watching them win their game. He's fully aware I paid no attention to the game. But I'm also fully aware it takes the bare minimum to rile him up.
"Yes, I know that Grant. I meant to say you. You really can't be stupid enough to think I meant for ninety minutes I completely zoned out." I sort of did. I read for a bit. But the chances Carter noticed what I was doing in the time the game took place, is close to none.
"You are such a fucki-" Carter starts but stops himself before he says anymore. I'd love to know what else he has to say.
"A fucking what? Bitch?" I've heard it all before.
Men feel inclined to say whatever they feel like to me. Maybe they think I give off a vibe or some shit, but I know I don't give off a vibe. I just know men like to treat me how they think they can.
They make me feel like shit half the time even when they aren't trying to.
I can do shit on my own.
I can say shit on my own.
I don't need anyone's help.
But unfortunately for me, I am not Bree and I do not automatically shut a man down with one side eye.
I am not Romi who has a giant soccer player for a boyfriend, who is with her most of the time.
And I am not Rie who lives in a sorority, works most of the time, and has little chats with Levi all the time, Levi who screams I have a hitman on speed dial.
