Stares were what he was used to. Stares in the school, from those too afraid to look for long, those who periodically had to look, just to see why someone like Richard Gansey III had chosen someone like Ronan Lynch for his best friend. Stares in the stores, on the streets, from people who were either drawn to look because of his handsome features, inherited from his father, or because he looked like every teacher's (every mother's) worst nightmare.

She had spunk, he had to hand her that; most wouldn't dare to even suggest something like a contest. And maybe, past Ronan would have bristled, angry that this stranger would assume, even for a moment, what he could or couldn't do; the Ronan of now simply smirked. There was no prize he would want; no prize he couldn't dream up for himself.

But the truth stood: he was bored. And she was neither afraid nor wanting to impress him, both facts that counted in her favor.

"How about this," he countered, "you throw first, I decide whether it's even worth it."

This wasn't street racing, but given that no cars seemed to even work here, this would have to do.