Chapter 7 KNOX
The hallway was still buzzing with post-lecture noise—phones out, voices overlapping, someone yelling about a group project deadline—but my brain kept replaying that half-second look she gave me. Not the usual wide-eyed stare I got from girls who recognized me.
Not the flirty once-over. Not even the fake indifference some tried to pull off.
She’d looked at me like I was… annoying
Like I was a mosquito that had buzzed too close.
Like I was just another guy who’d bumped into her and kept walking.
Not Knox Reyes.
Not the quarterback. Not the guy whose name got whispered in hallways and DMs. Just some asshole who didn’t watch where he was going.
It was… refreshing.
Irritatingly refreshing.
I shook it off as we pushed through the double doors into the quad.
The March air hit cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering haze of last night’s tequila.
The sun was out but weak, the kind of light that made everything look flat and tired.
Students milled around—some rushing to their next class, some sprawled on the grass pretending to study, a couple making out against a tree like they’d forgotten public decency existed.
Hunter clapped me on the shoulder.
“You good, man?.”
“Headache,” I muttered.
Slate glanced over, eyebrow raised.
“From the blondes and brunette or from the whiskey?”
“Both. And the lecture. And the fact that I’m still breathing the same air as Tracy.”
Hunter laughed.
“She’s still on that ‘let’s get back together’ kick?”
“She’s on the ‘let’s pretend we were ever together’ kick. I told her we were just fuck buddies. She acted like I’d proposed and then taken it back.”
Slate snorted.
“Classic Tracy. She’ll be blowing up your phone by tonight.”
“Already started. Three missed calls and a voice note that’s probably forty minutes long.”
We cut across the grass toward the parking lot.
Hunter’s SUV was parked crooked in the back row—same spot he always took because
closer to the exit means faster escape
I climbed into the passenger seat while Slate slid in the back.
Hunter started the engine, the truck rumbling to life beneath us like it was as hungover as I was.
He cranked the heat, then glanced over with that shit-eating grin he always wore when he was scheming.
“Need to swing by the liquor store before tonight,” he said, pulling out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other already scrolling through his phone.
“We’re low on tequila. And vodka. And whatever the fuck else people drink when they’re pretending they’re responsible adults.”
I groaned, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window.
The throb behind my eyes dulled a fraction at the contact, but not enough.
“I’m still hungover from last night’s party,” I muttered.
“My liver filed for divorce this morning. I’m not touching anything stronger than water and regret until at least Friday. If we drink again tonight, Coach is gonna smell it on us from the sidelines tomorrow.”
Hunter laughed, loud and unconcerned.
“I’ll keep it low-key. Just the team. No girls, no bullshit.”
Slate leaned forward from the back seat, arms crossed over the center console, eyebrow arched like he’d just heard the punchline to a bad joke.
“No girls?What kind of party is that?” he deadpanned, voice flat as pavement.
“A book club? Prayer circle? You planning on serving herbal tea and feelings? Maybe some acoustic guitar and group hugs while we talk about our childhood trauma?”
Hunter snorted so hard he almost swerved into the next lane.
“Fuck off,” he said, grinning wide enough to show teeth.
“We need one night where nobody’s crying, nobody’s screaming, and nobody’s already naming our future kids by breakfast. Just cold beer, some dumbass video games, maybe a few hands of poker if we feel like losing money to each other. Recharge before the scouts start breathing down our necks and Coach benches us for looking at him funny. Life’s too short to stay sober and jerk off alone, man. We’re young, rich, and terminally stupid—let’s fucking use it.”
Slate let out that low, skeptical laugh—the one that meant he’d already decided you were full of shit.
“Pass. I’m not showing up to some sad boys’ night with controllers, instead of a warm pussy.”
“Of course there’ll be girls, you paranoid fuck.” He grinned, slow and dirty.
"What am we, a monks? It’s my house, not a fucking monastery. But I’m keeping it low-key—no psycho exes, no ‘where is this going’ interrogations at 3 a.m. Just… easy fun. Speaking of—” he smirked.
“—I think I might finally get to fuck Suzie tonight. Been circling that one for months. Once I hit it, I can move on to the next. Clean slate. Fresh pussy. You know how it goes.”
Slate barked a laugh, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owned the truck.
“If you fuck her, don’t forget to call me,” he deadpanned.
“I want in too. Tag-team tradition, brother. We started this shit sophomore year—can’t break the streak now.”
Hunter barked another laugh, slapping the steering wheel.
“Done. Tonights the night boys. Suzie been giving me looks. Tonight’s the night. Then we wipe the slate and keep it moving. Life’s too short to get hung up on one girl when there’s a whole campus out there.”
I snorted, the sound rough in my dry throat.
“You two are disgusting.”
“Says the guy who had three different girls in the bathroom last night,”
Hunter fired back without missing a beat.
“Don’t act like you’re above it, Reyes. You’re just as bad. Worse, maybe. At least we admit it.”
I didn’t argue.
He wasn’t wrong.
Slate and Hunter were as bad as I was—maybe worse.
We were all the same—three dumbasses with too much talent, too much money, and too little impulse control.
We’d shared girls before, passed them around like party favors on nights when the high was running low and the boredom was creeping in.
One girl, three dicks, no jealousy, no feelings. Just bodies and release and the next morning’s walk of shame. It used to feel like winning.
Lately it just felt… empty.
I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand.
“If Coach finds out we’re drinking again—and fucking—after last week’s ‘focus lecture,’ he’s gonna bench us until we’re collecting Social Security. I’m not explaining to him why my spiral looks like a drunk toddler threw it because I was balls-deep in some sorority girl at 3 a.m.”
Hunter grinned wider.
“We’ll keep it quiet. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout,” Slate muttered from the back.
“Details.” Hunter brushed him off.
I stayed quiet, head still pressed to the cool glass, watching the campus fade in the side mirror until the red-brick buildings blurred into streaks of color and memory.
Hunter kept talking—listing off who he thought might show up tonight, rattling names like a grocery list:
“Jace is rolling up that top-shelf shit, Tyler’s got the fridge stocked with the cold ones, and listen—I’m telling you straight, Suzie’s finally gonna spread those legs tonight. No more blue-balling excuses, no ‘I’m not that kind of girl’ bullshit. She’s been eye-fucking me for weeks. Tonight’s the night she stops playing and starts paying up.”
Slate threw in crude commentary without missing a beat—rating who’d be “easy,” who’d be “worth the chase,” who’d probably cry after. Same conversation we’d had a hundred times. Same easy bravado. Same rules: fuck, forget, repeat.
It used to feel good.
Like winning.
Like I was the one holding all the cards, flipping them over one by one while everyone else scrambled for scraps.
The thrill of the chase, the high of the conquest, the quiet satisfaction of walking away clean every time.
Now it just felt… tired.
Exhausted.
Like I was running the same play on repeat and the defense already knew every route.
My mind wandered back to the girl in the hoodie again. Speckles.
The way she’d looked at me after I bumped her—not with hunger, not with awe, not even with the usual mix of flattery and calculation most girls wore like makeup.
Just mild irritation. Like I was a mosquito that had buzzed too close and she’d swat me later if I kept it up.
No fanfare.
No performance.
No expectation that I’d stop and notice her.
No immediate pivot to flirt, no hair flip, no coy smile.
She’d just… straightened her hoodie like it was armor, adjusted her glasses, and moved on.
Like I was nothing special.
Like I was just another guy who didn’t watch where he was going.
What the fuck.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought like water in my ear.
This was stupid.
I didn’t do this.
I didn’t obsess over girls who didn’t obsess over me.
I didn’t replay collisions in hallways like they were movie scenes. I didn’t wonder what someone looked like under a baggy hoodie or why they didn’t melt when I threw out a nickname. I didn’t give a shit about mild irritation. I gave a shit about the ones who wanted me—needed me—couldn’t get enough of me.
That was the game.
That was the win.
So why the hell was I still seeing her Speckles in my fucking mind?
