RHETT

          Brie stares at me like she has just swallowed a bug.

          Better yet, she stares at me like I'm an insect—full lips twisted into a deep scowl, eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes shooting blazing daggers at me—but I can't say I'm entirely surprised. We haven't been on the best of terms for years at this point, and I'd be shocked to face a warm and receptive Brooke Sheridan after everything that has happened, but there's a part of me that has always been into her fiercer side.

          Will I ever admit this to her, when there's a high chance it will blow up on my face, and I need this face to be intact? Absolutely not. Brie Sheridan knows exactly how to get under my skin just with one intense look, and that's what she's doing—she's leaving me to rot, heart pounding in anticipation after such an indecently daring proposal. 

          She sits so still across from me I almost make the mistake of underestimating her, but she's as fiery as her hair, even when she tries to reel it in, and only a fool would ever fail to appreciate her the way she deserves.

          I am no fool and have always been rooting for her from the sidelines, which is a first for me. Being a part of the ice hockey team means having people cheer me on, not the other way around, and I've never felt the need to kiss up to someone or beg for their attention, just a nanosecond of their time. Brie Sheridan, damn her, somehow gets me to do it without as much as lifting a finger, and I don't even think she realizes it—or cares. After all, she doesn't think about me or what I think about her, right?

          I'm more than prepared to call her bluff. If she doesn't care about any of those things, then she would have uttered a response already, be it positive or negative, as she wouldn't have had to think much about it. If you don't care about someone, you're less inclined to care about hurting their feelings—like there are any of mine on the chopping block here, but I digress—and there's some semblance of regret clouding her eyes.

          For a split second, she almost lets her vulnerable side win, face softening ever so slightly as she takes me in. As much as I like the strong-willed side of her personality and the way she can keep me on my toes, there's a softness to her that she often sets aside for the sake of appearing stronger and unbreakable. I know this because I've seen it, and it used to be the larger, more prevalent aspect of her being, but then I went ahead and wrecked it all up.

          Then, she bursts into laughter. It's a quick explosion, the kind of laughter that's meant to cut you right to the bone, but I've been through worse. I've been through injuries that could have ended my hockey career, and I've gone through devastating championship losses. I'm not bending and breaking myself into tiny pieces for another person, especially when that person is Brie Sheridan.

          My pride won't ever allow me to do such a thing. My guilt for having forced her to do the same for me speaks even louder than this stupid pride of mine.

          "You're joking," Brie states. "Why in the world would I date you? Do you need a refresher about all the times you screwed me over? What about a reminder of all the times you broke my heart then willed me to run right back into your arms the second it was convenient? The second you needed a reliable person to be with you?"

          I place a dramatic hand on my chest, right above my heart. "You wound me, Brooke. I think this would be quite beneficial for us both, and it would help us bury the hatchet. Enough time has passed, and, even though it was amusing at first, I don't enjoy fighting with you anymore. We're adults."

          Her glare intensifies. "I'm an adult. You're a boy stuck in the body of a man who thinks he's entitled to female attention just because he plays ice hockey. Why don't you go ask your puck bunnies to date you if you're suddenly so interested in monogamy? I'm certain none of them find you nearly as despicable as I do."

          She's trying to hit me under the belt, throwing piles of spaghetti at the walls to see what sticks, but she has no idea what to do right now—a clear sign she considered the proposal, even for the briefest of moments, and I haven't even explained my side of the story. I don't think she'll want to know or to help me out of the goodness of her heart, but there's something in it for the two of us.

          I scratch her back, she scratches mine, and we can both find some stability in our futures after college. She'll go on and pursue her dreams, while I'll still have a chance at going pro by keeping my sponsors and my family satisfied. What's there not to like about this?

          Deep down, I miss her. I miss my Brie, the kindest soul I've ever known. I miss my Brie, the one I broke almost beyond repair because I didn't know how to be the person she wanted and needed me to be. I still don't, but, at least, I'm aware of my limits now, and am not looking to lead her on like I did before. It's called personal growth.

          Even when I tell her all of this, she still looks skeptical.

          "I don't buy it," she states. "Why am I supposed to believe you've changed?"

          "You're not, but we wouldn't actually be dating, so there's no reason for you to be this stressed out about it. See, I still have zero interest in pursuing anything serious, not when I'm this close to landing a professional contract after graduation." Something deeper than just doubt crosses her coffee-colored eyes, something that sends my heart rate into disarray. When the light hits them, it brings out the warmth in them, illuminated like gold leaf. "My sponsors and my family believe I need a 'rehabilitated image'." I draw the air quotes with my fingers. "They think this whole . . . avoiding commitment like the plague thing will be detrimental to my career and reputation in the long-run, and they need me to be more stable, to show I can stay dedicated to something that's not just hockey."

          Brie crosses her arms and the fabric of her blouse tenses across her chest. I try my hardest to be respectful and not stare. "I see."

          "You want to get your life and your future back on track, but so do I. You'd be helping me keep them off my back while I focus on hockey, and I'd be helping you with your senior project. We'd be spending time together, so it would at least be believable, and you'd also be getting back at that fucker Cole as an added bonus. What he did to you was horrible. Loser behavior. You and I both know I'm no loser."

          Her eyes narrow. "That's all very nice to hear, but it sounds like you'd be using me for personal gain. It sounds like I'd be using you for personal gain, and that's not the kind of person I want to be. I don't mean this as an insult, but there's a reason you have the reputation you have, and I don't think pretending to date me will somehow make it disappear. Besides . . ." Her eyes well up with tears and a muscle in my chest tightens. I'm never good at handling people who cry in front of me, and I've never known what to do when Brooke Sheridan cries. "You really, really hurt me, Rhett. It's not something I can move past whenever you need a distraction. I got dumped an hour ago; is it really fair to ask me to jump into a relationship right away, even if it's fake? Is it fair to ask me to pretend to have reignited my feelings for you when you know how hard I've had to work to erase all of them from my memory?"

          I suppose I had that one coming.

          Whenever we talk, our past always inevitably comes up in conversation, in spite of our best efforts to keep it buried as deep as we possibly can, and it reminds me of how wounded I left her back then. When she needed me, I turned my back on her to focus on fickle things, and left her to lick and nurse her wounds by herself. I left her while she was bleeding out from the injuries I'd caused her (emotionally. I would never lay a hand on a woman).

          My throat is so dry I barely manage to inhale and, when I do, it feels as though there's nothing but sand in my lungs. As much as I want that career, as much as I want to succeed, I'm not heartless. I need to conduct myself in a certain way to look appealing to sponsors and I'm criminally addicted to attention, particularly that of the female kind, like Brie expertly pointed out, but it's not all that I am. I am no monster.

          Am I?

          "I really am sorry about how things worked out between the two of us," I admit. Her hands are set on the table now, closed into tight fists, and, if she were literally any other girl I was attempting to smooth talk into giving me a chance, all I'd have to do was lean forward, gently brush the tips of my fingers against her knuckles. However, Brie knows my tricks, knows my sharpest edges. "I never meant to hurt you, but I did. I can't erase the past, but I can make an effort to improve your future and mine. I meant what I said about not wanting to fight with you anymore. Even if the relationship would be fake, even if we'd both be using each other, it doesn't mean I don't want to try and fix things with you. I want to prove to you that we can be friends. I want to give the improved versions of us an opportunity to be in each other's lives, but I need to make it right. I need to do the right thing for once."

          She watches me closely, like she's trying to figure out when my mask will fall and it turns out I'm lying about the whole ordeal, but this is probably the most honest I've ever been in my life. She has no reason to believe or to trust me, even with her future at stake, and she's smart enough to figure out how to work her way through these obstacles without me getting involved. She's smart enough to see right through my bravado, and she's hurt enough to know it's wisest not to fall for it.

          Even though I'm being honest, I can't blame her for not trusting me. I wouldn't, either, but I need to know I at least tried to mend things. The ball is on her court now, and it's no longer up to me to make a decision. My mind is set on what I want to do—please my sponsors, please my family, and make it right by Brie once and for all.

          Even if it's out of selfishness, there is an element of care involved, and I don't want to let her waste her potential on a half-assed version of a senior project because I didn't try hard enough to make things right.

          "I don't know," Brie murmurs. "I want to believe what you're saying, but, every time I believe a word you say, it always comes back to bite me. Every time I fall for those sweet words of yours, I get my heart broken, time after time, and there always comes a moment when I ask myself when it's going to stop. I have to ask myself if it will be worth the risk." She timidly looks up at me through her long eyelashes, fearful like a wounded deer. "It's not just my future or my senior project in the line now. It's my emotional health. It's my recovery. I don't want to jeopardize everything I've worked so hard to piece back together."

          I let out a sigh, fearing I've fully lost her—and I'm the only one to blame. "I understand."

          "Thanks for offering to help me, though. It really does mean a lot." Her lips twist into a tentative smile and it's as if the sun is breaking through the clouds on a stormy day. "I'll think about it."

          "That's not a refusal."

          "No, Rhett. I suppose it's not." She shakes her head, auburn hair dancing around her, and I'm mesmerized by the waves. They're hypnotic, in a way, and I've always been appalled that she has never realized the effect she has on people—the effect she has on me. Every atom of my body is so attuned to follow her movements, to feel the scent of her strawberry shampoo long after she has left. "I also suppose I'll never quite know how to say no to you."

          I raise my hands by my shoulders, fully adopting a defensive stance before she can strike to kill, but I take it as a good sign that she's slowly falling back into banter mode. "You absolutely can say no to me. I won't take it personally. Even if you refuse, I'd still like to make it up to you."

          This time, to my utter shock, she flashes me a mischievous smirk. "You'd hate to lose to me, wouldn't you? Loser behavior and all that?"

          "I don't lose, Brie. I'm a fucking champion."

          She smoothly glides out of her chair, smoothing down any creases on her blouse—including those on her chest. She knows. "I guess we'll see about that. I'll let you know when I've made up my mind."

          This time, she's the one who leaves. I'm the one who watches.

          However, I'm still me. She's still Brooke Sheridan. She still looks gorgeous as all hell, with clothes fitting her perfectly in all the right places, and she knows I'm staring at her as she walks away from me—her legs and ass in those jeans should be a federal crime.

          "Nice ass, Brie."

          "Fuck off, Rhett."

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

look. i get it. it also pains me to write guys who behave like this, but it's for the sake of the vibes.

(no, really, i'm sorry. tropes, conventions, and all. he'll get better with time LOL)