CHAPTER TWELVE

Charlie moves to one side of the foosball table, his cheeks turning pink. “You look nice, by the way. Are those your clothes, or Atman’s?”

“Atman’s.” I hold back a nervous laugh and force myself to keep my expression even. “Buttering me up to get some sort of sporting advantage? That the best defense strategy you could come up with?”

“No need for strategy when you possess perfection. I’m flawless.”

“And modest, too.”

Charlie flexes his impressive arms in a show of manliness. He grabs the grip of the nearest rod on the table and spins it, sending the little soccer men into a display of acrobatics.

“Rotating any soccer figure more than 360 degrees is against regulations,” I inform him.

He stares at me, eyebrows arched, amusement dancing across his face.

“Just FYI,” I say.

He claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s go.” He looks down at the table. “Red or black? Your choice.”

“I’ll take red. Not like it matters. You’re doomed either way.”

“Not possible. You are looking at the master of all table games.” He spreads his arms out, motioning to his little kingdom in the game lounge.

“You gonna talk all day or are we going to play?”

He grabs a ball and readies it at the cup. “Brace yourself, Dez. Here comes the thunder.”

The ball clatters onto the table, and with one flick of my wrist, the first goal is on the scoreboard.

“Dez one, Charlie zero.” I give myself a little round of applause.

Charlie cocks his head and squints at the table. His dark hair flops over his eyes and he pushes it back.

I find myself wishing it were my hand brushing it aside.

I need to get a grip.

He leans in close and runs his hand across the table, searching for flaws. “Is this thing crooked? I think it’s sloped.” He nods. “Yup, sloped. Looks like my goal’s on the low side, here, which you know—”

“Spare me. Ready to lose the next point?”

“Pfft. You got lucky.” He drops the next ball, and after a few seconds volleying back and forth, I score again.

“Have you ever even played foosball before, Charlie? Maybe I need to explain how this works.” I point to his defenders. “See these guys? You use them to stop my guys from scoring. Maybe you should write this down.”

“Funny. Thanks, but I know what I’m doing.”

“Are you sure? Because it doesn’t seem like it.”

The jerseys of my players are painted the same shade of red as the team I always chose on the well-worn foosball table in my basement. The one my dad taught me to play on. It’s gotten so much use and abuse that one leg is wobbly and has pieces of extra felt glued to the bottom of it to make it sit straight, but I wouldn’t change a thing about it. Not one dent or scuff. Too many memories, like schooling Aaron at foosball before he—

The clatter of the ball falling into my goal and Charlie’s hoot of elation snaps me back to reality.

“Ha! You snooze, you lose.” Charlie pumps his fist in the air. On anyone else, this display would be unappealing, to say the least. Somehow, on him it works.

In case the gesture wasn’t enough, he breaks into a little dance. “That’s right, that’s right, here’s the thunder, here’s the thunder,” he chants. “Ba-boom!”

Without explanation, the grin falls off Charlie’s face and his arms drop to his sides.

“Dez?” Hannah’s voice is soft. And right behind me.

“Hey, Hannah,” I say, turning to face her with a big smile.

Her expression fluctuates between interest and gloom. “Sorry to interrupt.” She looks from Charlie to me. Her cheeks redden.

My stomach lurches as she examines us. Crap.

Bogged down by the awkward silence enveloping us, I offer, “Care to join us? Charlie sucks at this game and could use the help.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hannah says. She glares at Charlie and storms off.

Charlie drops a ball back onto the table and watches as it rolls slowly toward my goal.

“What was that all about?” I ask, not sure I’m ready to hear about his relationship with my only other friend in this place.

Or any other girl, for that matter.

Charlie shrugs. “You stick a bunch of dead, moody teenagers together and you’re going to get a lot of fireworks.”

“Great, so it’s like high school, but no prom and no graduation?”

“Something like that.” He stares after Hannah as she slams the door to our suite shut behind her. “Want to finish our game?”

Alarm bells clang in my head. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Maybe tomorrow, then?”

“Sure.” My feet do the thinking for my reluctant brain, compelling me to follow Hannah back to our room. “See you tomorrow, Charlie,” I call over my shoulder.

With trepidation, I enter our suite. “Hannah?” I call out.

Hannah is sprawled on her bed, so I flop on mine. My arms wrap around a pillow. I try again. “Hannah?”

“What?”

My voice is heavy with nerves. “Did I … is there something between you and Charlie?”

She stares up at the ceiling. “No.”

“Well, was there?”

“It’s not your problem. You have enough to worry about right now.”

“If you guys have some kind of history—”

“Just stop.” She covers her eyes with her arm. “We don’t. Maybe we came close, once, but it didn’t work.”

“I’ll steer clear, okay?”

“Don’t bother.” She turns to face me. “He never looked at me once the way he was looking at you after, what, five minutes? Have at it.”

Her words are hollow and unconvincing, her feelings for Charlie clearly unresolved. I sit up, desperate to change the trajectory of our unfolding relationship. “It’s almost time for that dream-state, right?”

Her expression softens. “It is. Do you have any questions?”

“Not really, I guess.”

As I prepare for what’s next, I make a silent vow to steer clear of any romantic entanglements with Charlie.