Free The Hard Count by Ginger Scott Page B

snaps.
    I manage to keep my mouth shut. My eyes, on the other hand, can’t hide my reaction, and they open wide, my brow lifting.
    He’s like an angry bull right now, his nostrils flared while he breathes, standing from his desk chair and tugging his heavy bag over his shoulder. He pulls his hat from his back pocket and smooths his hair back before sliding it in place. When he looks at me again, his rage isn’t as obvious. He breathes in deeply, then releases it in a gust.
    “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t take that out on you. I just…sometimes it feels personal.”
    “I get it,” I say.
    “No, you really don’t.”
    Head down again, Nico walks toward me, to the door. Just as he reaches for the handle, I grab it in my hand and step in front of it, clutching it behind my back in a move that brings my toes and Nico’s only an inch apart.
    I have nowhere to go, unless I decide to break down and let him leave with the final word. My fingers twitch, wanting to push the handle down and slide back into the hallway, releasing us both into the crowd. I squeeze the metal hard and hold my breath.
    No.
    Maybe because of the dream.
    Or maybe because I don’t want Nico to think he can sum me up that quickly, too, because I do get it. And the fact that he can dismiss my empathy so easily really pisses me off!
    “You’re being a jerk,” I say.
    “Am I?” His response is fast, and snarky.
    “Why do you do that?” I ask, grateful when he takes a step back, giving us distance.
    “Do what?” he sighs.
    “That’s your thing. You respond to every argument I ever give you with a question,” I say.
    His lip quirks up.
    “Do I?” Amused by himself, his shoulders shake with his quiet laughter.
    My head tilts, and I catch his eyes.
    “Are you going to give me a real answer?”
    Nico runs a hand down his face, holding it still after a few passes before cracking his fingers open over his eyes to look at me. My palms are sweating, and I can feel my pulse in my fingers that are still clutched around the door handle behind me. I’m in a room alone with Nico Medina, and he’s just stared at me from two feet away, and his eyes match the ones on the version of him that kissed me in my subconscious. They’re golden. They’re so different. My dream got them just right.
    “You know you just answered me with a question…right?” he says.
    It takes me a few seconds to register his words and then replay my own in my head. My eyes look up while I think, and my head bobs slightly as I say my own words in my head, and in the end, all I can do is growl.
    I growl. Like a petulant child mad that she didn’t get the color she wanted from the crayon box. I’m one foot-stomp away from making this a truly spectacular display of my maturity. Add to it the burning feeling creeping up my chest, over my flesh, making me want to shut my eyes and maybe vomit a little. I don’t like any of this.
    My hand pushes down on the handle, releasing me from my prison, and I step to the side, my back against the now-open door as I wait for Nico to step through in front of me. He doesn’t though. Instead, he leans on the closest desktop, his dimple deep and his smirk on the verge from dropping him into a fit of laughter—at my expense.
    “You frustrate me,” I say, my words sharp and a little louder than they probably need to be. The few people still walking in the hallway glance my way, and I hold up a hand to wave. They look away immediately because, frankly, I’m not that important.
    The afterschool crowd thins quickly as lockers slam closed and people clear out for home or practice or special clubs. My shoulder aches from my equipment bag, which makes me think of Nico’s, so I finally give in and turn to face him. When our eyes meet, he pushes up to a stand and steps closer.
    “I’m glad I frustrate you. Good; we’re even,” he chuckles, walking past me, but stopping a foot outside the door. “Are you coming to practice again?”
    I twist