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“Sounds perfect.” I tighten my grip on his hand, feeling a little bit reckless, a little bit brave. There’s a promise in his touch, a hint of something more than just pretense.
We walk on, heading to my apartment, and leave the whispers and gossip behind. Or else, I thought we did. My skin prickles with awareness, hyperconscious of every glance we draw, every murmur that follows his wake. I let out a sigh.
“They’ll calm down once they get used to the idea of us.”
“Promise?” There’s a glint in my eye. I may be teasing, but there’s some truth to my question.
“Trust me. It’ll get better.”
No sooner than the words leave his mouth, we pass a group of girls sitting on the bench who openly gawk at us. I have my doubts that it’ll get better any time soon.
“How’d you know where to find me?” I ask.
“We got home from practice when Ryan got a text from Maddy.”
“Wait.” I turn to look at him. I’ll dissect the fact he came to rescue me later. But Maddy texting Ryan makes little sense. “They hate each other. Why would she text him?”
He shrugs. “Guess she was looking out for you.”
“I suppose.”
We resume walking, our hands still intertwined. His face is still carved into a frown.
“I hope that won’t be a problem. If the crowd gets too much, I’ve got your back.” His eyes flicker to mine, steady and reassuring.
I snort, a little sharper than intended. “And what? You’ll take on the entire student body with your hockey stick?”
“Only if they don’t play nice.” He grins, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. The last sunlight catches in his hair, distracting me for a heartbeat—or three.
“Charming,” I murmur, my words dripping with sarcasm while my insides do somersaults. I take a deep breath and focus on the pattern of sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead, anything to anchor me at this moment where Blake Morton, hockey star and heartbreaker, chooses to walk me home.
“Always,” he says. Sidestepping a group of students, he releases his hold and guides me with a hand on the small of my back. It’s a simple touch, but it feels like he’s writing promises along my spine.
“Full of yourself much?” I toss the words lightly, even as I fight the urge to close the distance.
“Confidence, Amanda. It’s called confidence.” His laugh rumbles in his chest.
“Right, because there’s such a fine line between that and arrogance.” My arm brushes against the fabric of his sleeve—by accident, I swear.
“Ah, but you see,” he leans closer, his warmth enveloping me, “arrogance is believing I can win you over. Confidence is knowing it.”
“Keep dreaming, Morton.” But as I say it, I wonder why my heart skips at the thought, betraying me with its hopeful rhythm.
“Best dreams I’ve ever had,” he replies, and there’s something in his tone, a depth that wasn’t there before—a vulnerability that makes my throat tighten. “Got big plans tonight?”
“Studying, mostly. And working on my application for the internship at Memorial Hospital.” My words come out rushed, a testament to the torrent of tasks swirling in my head.
“I thought you finished the internship application.”
“I am, for the most part. I wanted to go over it a few more times. It has to be perfect.” I need to be selected. I don’t have a perfect four-point grade point average. The prestigious colleges won’t consider me. I know this. That’s why I need this internship on my resume. It’ll help with future scholarships at lower-tier schools. I don’t care where the medical degree comes from. I just need the degree. I won’t get there without some type of help.
“Are you still planning on coming to the game on Saturday?”
I hesitate. “I had planned on working after my volunteer shift at the soup kitchen.” Missing my volunteering gig is not an option, especially since I found out that one of the board members on the internship committee is a generous donor to the organization.
“I thought you were quitting your server job.”
“I am, or I plan to. It’s just that I needed to give them notice first.”
