You know how I know I’m going to hell?

Well, besides the obvious—drinking too much, sleeping around.

Her.

My best mate’s girl.

She’s the only thing rattling around in my head these days, and I’m a proper dickhead for it. I know I am. But I can’t help it—every time Hughie leaves the room, I feel this spark of… relief.

Because then it’s just me and her. Alone.

It’s about ten at night when the eejit finally decides to take a shower.

I should feel guilty. Ashamed. Something. Anything. But I don’t.

And honestly? The bastard doesn’t deserve her anyway. He’s still sniffing around Liz—we all know it.

He’s toying with her. His actual girl.

And I’m pretty sure she knows. She’s not stupid. She’s sharp as they come. So what the fuck is she still doing with Biggs?

Is it his looks? His fake charm? The way people seem to like him? It’s gotta be something. But what?

It sure as hell isn’t what he’s doing in bed. If he’s even doing anything at all. Fecking virgin.

I can tell by the way her eyes linger a second too long when I pull my hoodie off. I do it on purpose, of course. I know she’s watching when my shirt rides up with it. And every time, I have to bite back a grin.

Jesus Christ.

So yeah—if I didn’t already have a spot reserved in hell, I’ve got one now.

“So, uh… when did you say the match was?” she asks, a little flustered.

Here we are again. Pretending.

Me, pretending I don’t notice her cheeks flush or her gaze stick just a little too long. Her, pretending she hasn’t clocked every single thing I do.

She knows I do it on purpose. And I know she knows.

“Next Friday, love,” I mutter, leaning back against the couch, fighting a smile I’ve got no business wearing.