Page 43 of Best Man on Campus

But I don’t say any of that. I shrug. “I’m not sure. She’s … complicated.”

“No shit. If half of what I’ve heard about her is true, complicated is a diplomatic word. She made a fucking porn video and put it out there for a grade in her class. That was damn bold and not …”

“Acceptable behavior?”

He looks away.

“It’s okay. I get it. She has problems.”

“And you want to solve them—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s who you are. The guy who rescues kittens from trees and messed-up girls from whatever the hell is messing them up.”

I heave a sigh, relief that it’s out, the knowledge rushing through me.

“If I can help her, why wouldn’t I?”

“Just don’t do it at your own expense,” he says, slapping my back.

“No. I get the prize in the end, a whole Jazzy, a hell of a woman. Smart, beautiful, talented, and full of so much—”

“Stop, I get it,” he snorts a laugh. “You’re further gone than I guessed.”

His words are like a slap on the face, the kind that’s meant to wake a person, snap them from whatever stupor they’re in. Wake me to the fact that I’m falling for a broken girl, too far gone to retreat. Because even when she pushes me away I come back, and there’s no more question that I want her, that I want her to want me for more than a bed partner.

“Shit.” I push a hand through my damp hair.

“Go. Don’t let me keep you from your mission. Your crazy-ass mission.”

I slap his back, grateful for his friendship, his understanding, and his reluctant support.

“Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. You need a fucking miracle,” he says as he walks away to his car, to join the others.

* * *

Jazzy lets me in and I don’t bother asking her why she didn’t show up. The only explanation I want is her entire story and there’ll be time for that. Not now.

“So you won, right? You didn’t mention it in your text. Some hockey boy you are.”

I laugh because she’s right. My priorities once I’m off the ice change dramatically. No wonder Kace called me on my obsession.

“We won.”

“Did you score me a goal?”

“No goal.” I almost say because you weren’t there, but I don’t. Whether it’s true or not. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. As I step inside, her jasmine-scented space surrounds me and I take her in. Her energy is subdued. Something is off. I notice she’s wearing an old New York Rangers jersey, no pants, no shoes. Even at less than a hundred percent she makes me smile..

“Where’d you get the jersey?”

“Like it?”

“I like what’s in it.” I move in and wrap her in my arms, sensing trouble, noticing some puffiness around her eyes like she’s cried recently.

“Your mom told me you were a Rangers fan. The other day. At the game.”