Tiago
There's no particular reason for me to wait by my locker. No reason to keep my eyes on the locker in front of it, either.
But I stay, while the life around me goes on.
"Sorry, son, maybe next time..." I remember Coach Beckett saying, though we both know there won't be a next time. Next year, I'm supposed to be in college.
If I even get in, because without football, I'm not getting a scholarshipânot with my GPA tanked over one assignment.
I take a deep breath when the weight of reality hits too hard. It's been too long, and still no sign of Yannik. Sooner or later, she'll have to come to her locker.
I can't believe she's taking AP History. Mr. Dawson could've assigned me to literally anyone else, but noâhe gave me a tutor who's more likely to go to a party and get wasted than step foot in a library.
Why does it matter, though? Tutor or not, there's no way I'm fixing my GPA fast enough to get those applications out.
My brain knows the bell is about to ring, but my body takes me to the locker rooms near the field anyway. Jeez, I need a cigarette.
The locker rooms seemed fine last time I checked. They're mostly used by sports teams since they're too far from the main building, and the gym classes happen in other rooms.
A perfect spot. Besides, it doesn't seem like Yannik is coming to her locker anytime soon.
I'm used to locker rooms smelling like a cocktail of sweat, cheap, strong deodorant, and humidity. I'm even used to the lingering scent of stress and nervousness.
Anything but weed with a hint of exotic fruits, though.
I round the corner where the lockers end, and there she isâalone and distant. For the first time, her face looks relaxed.
Her. In the male locker room.
I almost turn back to double-check the sign on the door, but my legs freeze as Yannik lifts her eyes to me. She doesn't look surprised, though. Maybe I did walk through the right door after all.
"What's up, Big Boy?"
Oh, how I wish I could say I'd forgotten the nickname she gave me the moment she saw me. But I haven't. One of the things I remember about her is how husky and mischievous her voice sounded when she said it.
"Isn't this the... the male locker room?" I stammer as she exhales, thick smoke curling from her lips. Only now do I realize why the room smells so sweet and musty.
Looks like I was right about my assumptionsâjust swap out coke for weed. Still illegal, by the way.
But she looks so calm now, so unbothered. It makes me wonder if it's the weed or the emptiness of the room that makes her face so peaceful.
Yannik chuckles and pulls her knees to her chest, scooting over on the window bench. She nods toward the empty spot, her soft yet wicked one-sided smile daring me.
"Wanna join me?"
I hesitate, just long enough for her to raise her brows in a silent question, waiting for my answer. My jaw tightens as my eyes flick toward the window.
"Maybe we should change the spot then?" I suggest.
An instant chuckle escapes her lips.
"Not yet, mate," she says playfully, emphasizing the last word. I can feel my throat tighten as I swallow. "What are you, British?"
"Aussie, actually," I manage to say, trying for a smile, but the corners of my mouth only twitch awkwardly.
She nods once, then again, her gaze drifting from me back to the window.
"Could've guessed," Yannik says softly. The quieter her voice, the huskier it gets. "You know, it actually has a privacy film. Just imagine if the whole school could see those football players' dicks..."
A dry laugh cuts through the air as I finally move, taking slow, deliberate steps until I sit on the window bench across from her. I hadn't thought about the privacy film, but she has a point.
She looks at me again, and now that she's closer than she's ever beenâso close our legs are touching, nearly intertwining on the narrow benchâI can see every detail of her face. The freckles dusting her skin, her piercing hazel eyes, and her full, pink lips.
Gold suits her. That horseshoe septum ring gleaming against her skinâit looks perfect.
"How did the tryouts go?" Yannik asks casually, as if she wasn't there on Friday.
Right.
It's strange how I spent the whole weekend obsessing over it, had a full-on breakdown in the bathroom when I found out, and yet, in this moment, I'd almost forgotten about it.
For a fleeting second, my mind goes completely blank. Nothing there except the gold shining on her face and that weak but wicked grin.
"I got rejected, actually..."
The words don't even feel like mine as they leave my mouth.
A sharp jab of guilt pierces my chest when I see her hazel eyes shift. There's pity in her expressionâa reflection of it, at least. A look I never expected from her.
"Oh, fuck. I mean, well..." Yannik mumbles, clearly caught off guard. Her eyebrows drop, but it's not out of compassion. She looks genuinely unsure of how to react, fumbling with the weight of the news. If I wanted her to care, I might've called her a sociopath for her awkward response.
But I don't want her to care.
"Bless your heart, I guess," she finally says.
She turns her head to the window and takes a drag from the blunt between her fingers. She doesn't look back at me, doesn't even exhale the smoke right away. She just stays frozen, staring outside, waiting for me to speak.
I want to. I really do.
Just not with her.
Not with anyone.
The last thing I need is to feel judged again, so I do what I always doâsmoke the hell out of myself until the last thought leaves me, pain and nicotine the only things left in my veins.
"What are you, religious?" I ask, letting my sorrow disguise itself as a bitter chuckle.
She lets out a loud cackle, the sound cutting through the tension. It's exactly what I needed.
"Hell, no," she says with a grin that spreads across her face as I reach out and gently take the joint from her fingers. My eyes stay on her as I bring it to my lips, like I'm incapable of looking anywhere else. Her face feels like the only anchor I have right now. "I'm Southern."
"Could've guessed," I say, smirking as I mimic her tone from just moments ago.
Yannik watches me inhale, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as if teasing me. The smoke fills my lungs, thick and harsh, and I fight not to cough.
Jeez, this stuff is strong.
The weight of her gaze feels almost physical, invasive. It's not just that she's looking at meâit's the way she looks through me, into me, peeling me apart with her eyes. I felt it the very first time I saw her: she's the type of girl who gets inside your head and stays there, twisting her way into your thoughts until everything revolves around her.
I don't want to be like everyone else. Don't want to be another guy caught in her orbit.
But right now, I feel vulnerable.
Because I'm already here: in the male locker room, skipping class during the second week of school to smoke weed with her.
"Yannik," Smoke leaves my lungs as I say her name. I don't need to; her attention is already on me. But I do it anyway because I suddenly want to hear how her name sounds when I say it. "I didn't see you in Biology class today. Never, actually."
She licks her lower lip, the ball of her tongue piercing sliding against the pink skin. "Oh, you won't see me much. I'm not great at showing up."
I flinch when her fingers brush mine. She snickers, and I can't tell if she's amused by my reaction or just enjoying the meaningless small talk we're having.
"But it'll screw your grade," I say, frowning. It's hard to reconcile how someone who skips classes so easily is top of the class in AP History. Yannik just shrugs, bringing the blunt closer to her lips.
"So fuck it," she murmurs, the words almost swallowed by the smoke she exhales.
Her voice is... something else. Husky, playful, with a dangerous edge that feels like it's wrapping itself around me. It's the kind of voice that could drive someone insane, hot and mischievous, like it knows exactly what it's doing.
"I think you should really come," I blurt out.
Yannik looks at me, her mouth slightly open, smoke curling slowly from her lips as she holds her breath. She seems surprised, her expression softening into something unreadable.
"Why? You want me there?" she asks, letting the smoke drift out as she speaks. A playful smirk creeps onto her face just before she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. "Whatever. I ain't good at science anyway."
"I can help you," I say, my voice shaky, like I have no control over what I'm saying.
Her eyes snap open, wide with interest, and she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The blunt dangles from her lips as she studies me. The way she leans in, so focused, makes me feel small. Exposed. I look away, mumbling to fill the sudden tension.
"I mean... since you're already helping me with History..."
Yannik laughs, low and wicked, handing me the blunt. The moment feels strangely intimate, sharing the same joint. My mind fixates on the thought of her lips touching the filter right before mine. As I take a puff, the world starts to tilt, spinning slowly around us, wrapping us in its dizzying center.
"Is this some kind of deal?" she asks, her tone teasing, and I raise an eyebrow.
"I guess so," I mutter, exhaling smoke. I avoid looking outside; the world feels like it's rippling, swaying too much for me to handle.
Her lips curve into a devilish smile, her head tilting as she looks up at me through her lashes. The underlook sends a chill racing over my skin.
The air feels suffocating. Every breath I take fills me with the musky scent of weed, mingling with the sweet, sour aroma of tropical fruits. It's intoxicating in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke.
"What about something else?" Yannik's voice drops to a near whisper, dripping with suggestion. "A deal that's more... valuable?"
"What... What are you talking about?" I laugh nervously, trying to shake off the chill running through me. But even through my haze, I notice her eyes flicker downward for just a second before settling back on my face.
Everything feels heightenedâthe air quivering, the smoke curling from her fingers, the subtle sway of her body beneath her skinny-fit T-shirt. My gaze falls back to her face, drawn to her sharp features and the glint of gold in her septum.
"I can get you what you want, Tiago."
The way she says my nameâit's explicit, almost erotic. Her gaze locks onto mine, predatory, playful in a way that feels twisted. A lump forms in my throat, guilt pressing against it as she leans back slightly, still holding the blunt.
"Get you into the team."
"Wait, you can?" My eyebrows knit together as I lean forward instinctively. She smirks, holding the blunt out to me, lightly pressing it to my lips.
Oh, boy.
"You don't know what I'm capable of, do you?" Her smile is soft, but it's the most devilish thing I've ever seen. Taking the joint from her feels like giving in, like a silent consent. But my body doesn't hesitate. I inhale deeply, the smoke hitting me hard.
My skin burns, my limbs tingling with an almost desperate urge to reach for her, to pull her closer.
Deep down, I know this isn't right. I don't know her. She's not someone I can trust. But my body doesn't care. It wants contactâher skin against mine.
What's worse is the anticipation. The way I slide my leg against hers and sit still, waiting for her to act.
"So, you'll get me on the team," I clarify, forcing myself to speak through the numbness spreading over my tongue. "But what can I do for you?"
Her grin widens, wicked and knowing.
Yannik.
Her name echoes in my head, over and over. It's beautiful, intoxicating. I want to say it out loud. Again and again.
"Well," she murmurs.
My eyes stay fixed on her as she moves, her body swaying with an effortless sensuality. She shifts positions, now on all fours, crawling toward me. I can barely breathe, the air caught somewhere in my chest, refusing to move.
"I'm sure we can come up with something, right?"
It's not a question. Not when her face is this close to mine, the barest tilt of my head enough to close the gap between us. Her hazel eyes, sharp and wicked, lock onto mine as she brings the joint to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate puff.
I feel it now.
I've been fighting it since the moment I first saw her, trying to keep it at bay. But now, I'm losing control, consumed by the fire she ignites with every word, every calculated move.
Just by being hereâso alluring, so dangerous, so wrong.
So erratic.
I close my eyes, letting the tension coil low in my stomach. It's overwhelming, a heat I can't ignore, and Yannik leans in closer.
I can feel her now. Her breath brushing my skin, her lips hovering just over mine. The smoke she exhales slips into my mouth, filling my lungs with her. One hand rests on my thigh, her touch burning through the fabric, while her other hand finds my neck. Her grip is light but firm, sending shivers down my spine.
It hits me as a shot, instant and deadly.
If she kisses me now, I won't stop her.
More than thatâI'll pull her closer. My hands will tangle in her dark copper hair, grip her hips, and pull her flush against me until this unbearable tension breaks.
But it feels wrong.
I feel wrong.
Dirty. Nasty.
So desperate I'll do anything to get what I want.
Pathetic.
Hopeless.
The word "less" catches my eye as my fingers lift, trembling, to press against her lips.
"Hope" still lingers, faintly, as my other hand brushes against hers, still resting on my thigh.
"Hold on." The words leave me in a whisper, my voice foreign to my own ears. "Don't do this."
The room spins, her face a blur of wicked beauty. When I let my fingers slip from her lips, dropping to my lap in defeat, hiding the result of her actions away from Yannik, she stares at me with a shameless intensity.
Her gaze confirms what I already know: I didn't imagine this.
It's realâthe heat, the pull, the fantasy of her wanting to kiss me right here, in this dingy place where anyone could walk in at any moment.
The idea of two strangers, pulled together by a high spark and a lightning of her devilish entity.
The imagination of the taste of her lips dripping on my tongue.
But then, as if it's nothing to her, she shrugs.
"Alright," Yannik says, her voice casual, indifferent.
Her words hit me like a heavy slap. I feel discarded, a fleeting thought already forgotten even though she's still here, her hands still lingering on my skin, leaving behind a burning sensation as they pull away.
The confusion is unbearable. The collision of fantasy and reality makes me dizzy.
I want her to stop. To wipe that grin off her face and show me what's behind it. To share whatever desire she's savoring, instead of leaving me in the dark of her mischief.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she pulls a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket, blue with a strange cloud shape and dangling drops that tickle my skin as she places them on my face.
It's the last contact I get. My mind declares it enough, though my body begs for more.
"You're gonna need 'em if you don't wanna get caught," she says, her accent dripping with teasing amusement. Her eyes flick down briefly before she smirks, her teeth sinking in her bottom lip. "Big Boy."
And just like that, she's gone. Yannik jumps off the window bench and leaves before I can process the heat still radiating from my skin or figure out how to hide the evidence of what she's done to me.
My eyes drift to the nearly burnt-out blunt she left behind, still smoldering in the spot she occupied moments ago, but my mind is somewhere else, in the moment where I wanted to make out with a stranger.
Where my body wanted the contact it still craves, to the point I was about to lose it.
This is wrong.
So wrong it makes me sick.
Physically sick.
For a moment, I blame the poison she breathed into me, the smoke she shared. But noâit's the weed. It has to be the weed.
I rush to the nearest bathroom stall, almost falling on my way there as the whole world is spinning like a carousel.
For God's sake, I've never had to puke my guts out with a throbbing boner before.