Rules Of The Game: Book 1

1; Hollister Cologne and Mint

𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢
Parker's POV

**TW**
(I mentioned this in the Cast, but I'll add it here to incase anyone skipped it.
For storytelling sake, this story is not lacking racial & gay slurs, cuss words,
strong/descriptive/spicy sexual language, drugs, drinking, etc. Each chapter will mention something triggering.
Please take this warning with consideration.
I mean no harm as this is a fictional story, not my actual view point. Thank you!)

Thwick. Thwick. Thwick.

As I flick my pencil against the desk, my thumb grazes over the sharp aluminum eraser casing. Grimacing at the sudden pain, I press the scratch against my pencil and expect blood to follow. I would almost welcome a quick trip to the nurses office if it means leaving this history class.

Carefully, I lift my thumb off of the pressure and eye the damage.

Nothing. Damn.

Someone on the other side of the room coughs, momentarily disturbing uncle Greyson's lecture of the United States economic history during the 1900s. It's really exciting stuff. Or, at least I can assume it is by the way Greyson is pacing in front of his desk and flourishing his arms, trying to get us teenagers engaged. The laser pointer in his hands occasionally sends a flashing beam of red toward the ceiling, zipping across the tile and then across my peers' eyes in the front row.

I wish I had been born earlier into our family, preferably when my parents were still teenagers. All I would've needed is enough time to grab Greyson by the shoulders, give him a good shake, and beg him to stick with coaching football.

It's bad enough that he tortures me after school during practice. This class is just another knife in my gut.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

I flinch as my phone buzzes against my pocket, sending an undesired jolt down my leg. The boy sitting at the desk next to mine, some red-headed geek named Wade that's been aiming to be our class valedictorian since first grade, casts me a sharp glare.

I don't pay him any mind as I slip my phone out and angle my screen down, discreetly tapping on it. Not that Greyson would get pissed if he caught me on my phone, anyway. That's the only nice thing about him doubling as my uncle and my teacher— he lets some of my behavior slide under the radar.

heyitshannah tagged parker.graham on Instagram.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath and click on the notification to see what type of bullshit Hannah posted today.

Her account pops up, immediately bringing me to her newest post. It would maybe be a pleasant picture if it weren't for the fact that she's already posted six photos like this in the past.

I'm in the middle of the frame, my dark brown hair bordering black with sweat. Usually, I'm careful to keep the long strands pushed off of my face, but that's never the case after football games. Every piece is plastered down onto my head. My green eyes are devoid of emotion because, to me, the beaming blonde girls hanging off each arm are another roadblock to the locker room.

It takes me a second to glance between the two girls and figure out which one is Hannah. That's what I get for growing up in California: after awhile, all of the tan, skinny, blonde hair and blue-eyed girls start to look the same.