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I wedge myself between some people chatting among themselves. In theory, it should make it easier for me to get the bartender’s attention, but no. The competition’s spread all across the bar.
“I’m really looking forward to modeling it on C++—”
“Nah, man. C++ is from the past. You have to try?—”
I shake my head.
From the opposite side, someone says, “So, that’s why the intravenous alternative wasn’t the most optimal, and it caused a reaction of?—”
Welp, I have no idea what they’re talking about. If I didn’t feel out of place before, I sure do now.
“Excuse me!” I call for the bartender, but he’s too far to hear over all the racket. I hoist myself up the bar just enough to really make him see me waving my arms. I’m rewarded with a hold up gesture.
Something brushes against my arm as I lower myself back to my feet. It turns out to be a guy who had the same idea and is waving for attention.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to bump into you.” He has to mostly scream so I can hear him. His eyebrows are scrunched up with worry.
“It’s cool,” I yell back with a shrug.
He’s kinda cute, in an unassuming way. Dirty blond hair that’s a bit too long, dark eyes, a wide smile.Maybe he likes what he sees, because he extends a hand. “I’m Brett. Freshman. You?”
“Luz. Also freshman.” I shake his hand, and the bartender arrives right then. Dude radiates grumpiness for someone whose business is booming, so I forget all about Brett and place my order.
“Cool,” Brett says, now that we’re waiting for our drinks. “What’s your major?”
“Biology major and economics minor,” I respond. It’s a weird combination, but my move after I retire from a looong hockey career is to open my own physical therapy clinic.
“We might have some classes together! I’m a finance major and econ minor.”
“Here you go.” The bartender drops two glasses of Coke on the counter and extends a hand. “Five bucks each.”
“For soda?” My eyes bulge.
“No, for my bills,” he says, deadpan.
Okay, fair.
I pull out a few bills from my back pocket and mourn their departure.
There’s a crashing sound that grinds all the action to a halt for a moment. I sip on my drink as I glance toward the source. Two of the Bolts pick up a fallen dartboard, which is what must’ve made the noise. They’re laughing loud enough to make me wonder if they’re drunk, and just behind them is none other than the bane of my existence.
Max Cassiano’s eyes find mine as though there aren’t a hundred people between us. I want to look away. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m staring at him. But the second to last thing I need is for him to peg me as a coward. So I cock an eyebrow and pretend like I feel nothing. He sweeps his eyes aside, and I stagger in relief until my back hits the bar.
Wait, is he glaring at Brett?
“Ugh.” Speaking of, the guy beside me grunts. “Those hockey jocks are a pest.”
I mean, yes. But technically, I’m also a hockey jock.
“Oh yeah?”
“They walk all over the place like they own it.”
“Totally.” I give him my best serious business expression.
Brett eats it up and pops off. “Like, what’s the point of having a sports team? It cheapens the school, you know? We’re not into brute stuff around here.”
Well, I guess that answers my earlier question. This is probably what I’ll have to expect from other classmates.
