Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Mariah Dietz (best novels to read .txt) 📖

lashes that tease my body, then he pulls my bottom lip into his mouth, teeth, sucking, pressure. I am consumed by feelings and desires, and we are all hands and lips, tongues and teeth, devouring each other on the couch of someone’s house I don’t even know. I’m arched against his body, which lets me feel the entirety of him, and I think I could do this all night long, but too soon, realization dawns, and it feels like we’ve both just crossed a line that we had drawn without ever talking about it. I lean, so our foreheads are pressed gently together, gulping each other's breaths as we try to breathe.

“This is the last time,” I warn him. “You drink again, and I’m out.”

18

Paxton

The weight of the game feels like a boulder resting on my shoulders. I think of the hours I lost this week while working and the time I spent hanging out with Poppy, regret seeping into my nerves and twisting my stomach. As the quarterback, I’m the leader of the team, and though I’m among the top glorified, I’m also the most scrutinized because how I play has a significant influence that often translates to success or failure. It’s why I’m still starting though I’ve fucked up. Our undefeated record is still seen as a testament to my skills.

The second wave of guilt makes my lungs deflate. Poppy and I have been hanging out for three weeks now—friends when we’re alone and something more when we’re not. Her mad organization skills turned out to be a lifesaver last week when she had me list off all of my responsibilities from classes, football, social engagements, and helped me devise a schedule so it doesn’t feel like I’m constantly dropping the ball. I’ve noticed minute differences in her as well. Her smile has been faster and bolder. It’s been smooth sailing, aside from last night when I swallowed too much in a couple of quick pulls to rid the idea of Mike and Poppy, and Paulson, and today’s game.

As I continue down the cement tunnel, my thoughts zero in on the game. This is going to be one hell of a game. We played them last year, and it was a test of everyone’s patience and skills because their defense is not only fast but aggressive and smart. Ian, the captain of our defense, has studied their tape, learning from their sets and moves, adopting some of them for our own defense.

Lincoln flanks me. “This is going to be like that game last year. We’re just trying to get four seconds. That’s all I need to get down the field, then you fire it like a cannonball, and I will get it,” he assures me. I have no doubt of his skills. Lincoln is becoming well-known for his footwork and agility on the field. There’s a target on his back because he’s had multiple big games this season. Derek is our other wide receiver, and as hard as I’m trying to not allow my personal feelings to influence the game because I know it could be detrimental—especially tonight when their defense is gunning for me—the idea of throwing complete passes to Derek so he can run a touchdown makes my blood and stomach sour.

“Why the fuck did Candace have to pick him?”

Lincoln places his hand on my shoulder. “They deserve each other. You use Paulson. Tonight, you have to. Fuck him. He’s not going to ever get anywhere with this game. The only reason he’s made it this far is because his scrawny ass is fast. You’re better than him, Pax. Use him as a means to an end. If we lose this game, let it be on his ass because he couldn’t get down the field, don’t let it be because you wouldn’t pass it to him and got sacked.”

I pull in a deep breath through my nose and follow it with another drink. “You watch for their safety,” I remind him.

“Trust me, Rae already drilled it into me. I will be watching for him and stick to the left side of the field.”

I nod. I have no doubt my sister has been reminding him of this. But their safety is a beast who has injured more than one player this year, and since Lincoln hurt his shoulder our sophomore year, it’s a risk that has me knowing I’ll need to pass to Paulson if he can manage to get open because their defense will no doubt be expecting the ball to go to Lincoln.

“I need a Joe Namath fur coat for my birthday.”

Lincoln laughs. “Wear it while you guarantee wins.”

I grin. “Done.”

“Let’s make some highlights.” His hand grips my shoulder and then releases it in time to reach up and tap the bulldog that is our mascot. I tap the sign as well—it’s a tradition meant to bring us luck and pay homage to those who came before us.

The team gathers with us, preparing to take the field. Some teams make this a big spectacle with fireworks and gimmicks, and throughout the past year, ours has become more theatrical. However, it’s still a relatively classic and straightforward endeavor, one that has my thoughts focusing and my confidence emerging.

Coach Harris makes his way through the players at our back, touching the sign before placing his hand on my back. “You ready, son?”

“I was born ready, Coach.”

He grins. “I know you were. Let’s kick their ass!”

The music starts and the refs join us along with a few security guards, then the sign at the end of the tunnel lifts, signaling us to run forward onto the field. The music is deafening, and still, the crowd is louder. Our games have been sold out for more than a year now, filling every inch of the stadium with cheers that offer me another hit of adrenaline. Hoyt jogs beside me, carrying a flag. Beside him is Ian, who nods at me because it’s too loud to try and