“Okay,” I say, leaning back like Luca. “Here’s a math-y question that should be pretty easy for an expert mathlete to answer.” I enunciate my next words slowly, just in case they miraculously wind up ringing any bells for him. “Luca, what’s an epsilon-delta proof?” It’s the first high-level concept taught in every college freshman math class across the world, so if bychance Luca’s had any recent math classes, the question will surely suss that out.
With a wave of his big hand, Luca says, “That’s too easy. It’s the alcohol proof needed to make a sorority girl barf.”
Oh my God. Luca’s joke shatters my funny bone to the point I can’t speak or breathe from laughing. How is it possible it took a college football player instead of a math major or professor to make that hilarious joke for the first time in my life?
“That’s exactly right,” I choke out, wiping tears from my eyes.
He taps his temple. “If I’m not mathing, I’m not breathing, baby. Give me a harder one. That was too easy.”
“All right.” I lay an arm on the table and gaze into Luca’s dark, twinkling eyes. “What’s the limit of the sine of one over x as x approaches zero?”
Luca’s features freeze in a way that says, “Yeesh,” and I can’t help laughing yet again. Shoot. I thought I had an ironclad plan to make him a winner in our silly game, but apparently not. But just as I’m about to give him a hint, a light bulb visibly goes off on Luca’s chiseled face and he slams his palm onto the small table.
“The limit does not exist!” he booms. And I swear, I feel like a proud parent for leading him to that fully intended answer.
“Right again!” I choke out as Luca celebrates with a whoop. Clearly, he thinks he’s supplied yet another faux, funny answer like the first time—this time, by parroting one of the most iconic lines fromMean Girls. But little does Luca know, he’s actually supplied the correct answer this time, thanks to my diabolical scheming.
“Like I told you before, if I’m not mathing, I’m not—”
“No, no, Luca,” I manage between chuckles. “That was genuinely the right answer.The limit does not exist.”
Luca’s jaw drops. “What?”
“I served it up to you on a silver platter!” I roar with delight at his facial expression, and Luca absolutely loses it in reply, which then turns me into an electrified pile of goo. Is laughter foreplay? Right now, it sure feels like it.
“Was that the problem they asked Lindsey Lohan inMean Girls?” Luca asks.
“I don’t know. All I know is people who love that movie use the word ‘mathlete,’ so I knew the chances were good you’d supply that as your answer if I asked—”
“You mean you reverse engineered it for me?” he bellows. When I nod effusively like a bobblehead doll, Luca palms his forehead. “You know enough math to lead me to that answer on the fly?”
I inhale deeply to collect myself. “Don’t be too impressed. It’s an extremely basic concept.”
Luca looks positively astounded. “No, you’re a legit genius. You are, right? Like, for real?”
“No, no. Truthfully, I fudged it a little. The function oscillates wildly around zero, so it never actually approaches any specific value.” When he looks at me blankly, I add, “Here, I’ll show you.” I grab a napkin and graph it out, the same way I’d scribble down a football play, and when I look up from my work, Luca is flashing me the same lopsided grin I’ve seen on his big brother’s arrogant face many times at press conferences after a big win. And yet, somehow, on the younger Maguire’s face, that same smile doesn’t come off as arrogant or irritating to me, only swoony and butterfly-inducing.
“And here I thought I was the smart one for coming up with that,” Luca says. “But I was playing tiddlywinks while you were playing chess. Where do you go to school? Harvard or Yale or someplace like that?”
Crap.If I reveal my school is Northwestern, he could theoretically google my first name with the name of today’s mathcompetition, which he could easily find, at which point he might discover my full name on our team’s roster.
“University of Chicago,” I lie. “I’m a freshman there.” I motion to his T-shirt. “I’m assuming you go to Nebraska?”
He nods. “I’m a freshman, too.”
It’s a massive thing for Luca to be a starter on his team as a freshman. If his name wasn’t Maguire, I’d surely comment on that now and give him his proper due. But as it is, I keep my mouth shut and my knowledge about his impressiveness firmly locked away.
“I hope it’s not weird for me to say this again,” Luca says, “but your eyes really are incredible, Chelsea. I can’t stop looking at them and feeling like I’m in the middle of some beautiful ocean paradise.” He blushes. “I bet you hear stuff like that all the time, huh?”
I do, actually. I mean, it’s not usually anything quite that descriptive and flowery. And it definitely never comes from a hunky football player who’s making me tingle everywhere. Not to mention a football player who’s an edge rusher. But I’d be lying if I pretended people don’t frequently comment on my eyes.
“You have really pretty eyes, too,” I reply, finally giving him the compliment I held back earlier.
“Thanks.” His gaze flickers, ever so briefly, to my lips. When he returns to my eyes, he says, “Hey, are you staying here again tonight? At this hotel, I mean?”
The question sends my heart pounding against my sternum. Why’s he asking me that? “Yeah. You?”
“Yep. I’ve got to have dinner with my teammates after my game, but after that I’ll be free to hang out for a few hours before curfew. Do you wanna maybe meet up? I won’t be able to sleep tonight without knowing how your math competition went.”
