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CHAPTER2
Holy hot hockey god—Ronan. Just turned twenty-seven, three years older than her, six-feet-one, shutdown defenseman, extraordinary, amazing—perfect. Ronan wore sneakers instead of ice skates, jeans, and a polo shirt the same medium blue shade of his eyes. That was good. If he’d been in his ice hockey gear, she’d have passed out from the power of this moment. As it was, wonder was shaking her knees. His light brown hair was tousled and damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. It meant practice had ended. Dang.
Ronan’s gaze took her in from head to toe then glanced around the room. “Unless you aren’t alone?”
What did that mean? She had been with her cousin, but clearly, Dahlia wasn’t here now. Calista opened and closed her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say.
His gaze landed on the screen printed twenty-two across the front of her jersey. “That’s my number. You came in here to meet me?” A high flush hit his cheekbones. “I’m flattered. You must be a new dancer.” He pointed his index finger at her chest and then up at his own hard pecs. “We’re not allowed to date. Dancers and players, that is.” His gaze stayed on her jersey, and he bit the masculine curve of his lower lip.
OMG, this was not how meeting Ronan had played out in her fantasies. She was supposed to introduce herself to him as a fan. An admirer who recognized his genius on the ice, or as the potential new owner, one who’d assure him he was the star of the team, the best of the best. Tell him how lucky they were to have him on their roster, praise his speed, tout his skill and his control. More compliments blossomed in her brain, shutting down her ability to speak.
Ronan looked torn, but he stepped forward. “Your jersey’s caught.” He gently untucked her bunched sleeve. His fingers were warm and careful against her elbow.
Sparkly tingles shot from the point of his touch through her chest. What wizardry was this? He’d strung electrical currents to her nerve endings and made them dance. He was controlling her neurons the way he controlled the puck on the ice. This man was magic.
His fingers lingered, and he trailed them down to her wrist. “Your skin is so soft.” Ronan spoke as if he were in a trance. “I’m flattered,” he said again, sounding bemused. “But I really can’t.” His gaze dropped to her bare legs, and he tapped his fingertips against her wrist as if he couldn’t lift them off her. “We can’t.” He repeated as if she’d argued. “I mean we could—.” Ronan closed then reopened his mouth, like he wanted to finish the sentence but at the same time knew he shouldn’t.
Confusion and awe warred within her. What was happening here?
Banging sounds came from the door behind him. Letting her go, Ronan scrubbed his hand over his face and backed toward the exit. He jerked his body around and left.
Calista grabbed her clothes and scrammed.
* * *
Her three classmates were using the university classroom furniture as intended, Calista was not. She sat on the floor to disassemble her desk using her core tools: screwdrivers, a drill, and a wrench. Calista took the desk’s frame down until every bolt, screw, and base part lay in a semi-circle around her. Fun. Fun. Fun. Her body buzzed with the energy of solving a mechanical puzzle.
In the darkest corner of the room, Vivien played on her computer, pretending she wasn’t hacking, living her bliss. “What do you know about the Mer-bar?” Vivien asked with her jacket’s zipper tab in her mouth, which caused her question to come out garbled.
Olivia, who’d come in early, had a sunny spot by the window. She was reading through a sheaf of papers, which looked like legal contracts. Olivia straightened the starched edge of her rounded Peter Pan collar. “You’re in a class for geniuses, and we get extra points for actively socializing with real humans. You tell me, what do we know about a bar?”
As the only lawyer in their group, Olivia could make a solid point. Score one, Olivia. Too bad the class wasn’t destruction, hack, or zinger 101. They’d ace it.
“I’ve been to a bar,” Vivien muttered. “Two of them.”
The fourth and only male member of their group, nicknamed Artie for his Artificial Intelligence ambitions, jotted in a small black notebook. When Artie finished, he dropped his pencil on top of his family-sized bag of beef jerky. Leaving both behind, Artie moved from his desk to the floor. He inched toward Vivien, as if by moving slowly Vivien wouldn’t see him crawling toward her.
Should she say something?
When Artie was a foot away from her friend, he used a yellow measuring tape to determine the length and width of her llama-topped slippers. Vivien either didn’t notice or chose to ignore him.
Calista held her tongue.
Next, Artie, still on his hands and knees, maneuvered to the window and measured Olivia’s pale pink flats. Olivia noticed him, checked her phone, and made a note on her legal pad.
Artie pivoted toward Calista’s sneaker-covered feet last.
The yellow tape measure rose above her toe, clearly measuring her size eights, and whirred back into its casing.
To be honest, Artie creeped her out when he did things like this, but kicking him in the head wouldn’t get her the social points she needed to graduate. Calista wasn’t sure what would. “I don’t understand this class.” She projected her frustration with Artie onto her statement about the university making her do this special project in order to graduate.
Olivia rolled her hazel eyes. “Project Genius was the best I could negotiate after you burned down a lab. Vivien hacked. Artie did his unmentionable act, and, I may have been too blunt during my oral exams. Maybe. I’m not saying whether I was or I wasn’t, but here we are. We’ve got to figure out the best angle to succeed because we all pass or fail together.”
Group project. Each of them gave a shudder.
Calista knew she had underexplained the fire. That failure didn’t mean she lacked people communication skills as the dean had said. The pressure of the moment had simply caused her to go temporarily mute.
“Did you have to add in that whole we’ll be punctual and not skip rule?” Vivien asked.
