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“Suppose so.” His cheeks turned ruddy. “How do you get here every day?”
I motioned over my shoulder. “I catch a bus.”
“Oh, okay. You don’t have a car?”
“I could borrow my mom’s, but honestly, I couldn’t afford the gas,” I said bluntly. Now that he knew, it felt freeing. “How about you?”
“I do, yeah,” he said, not meeting my eyes, as if embarrassed that his car was likely in the lot, along with the other expensive sports vehicles and SUVs. “So if you ever want—”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
Besides, I didn’t want him to see where I lived. So much for not hiding stuff. I was no better, was I? I shouldn’t be ashamed, but with this crowd, why stick out more?
“Bet it’s nice living on campus. To roll out of bed and get to class,” I said as we got closer to the building.
He arched a brow. “Do I look like I just rolled out of bed?”
“Well, now that you mention it…” I looked him up and down, and when his face fell, I burst out laughing. “Got you. You always look put together.”
“So do you.”
“Please, you know I can’t dress as well as you or the other students.”
“Who the hell cares?”
“Uh, plenty of people.” When I threw him a pointed look, he seemed to remember the critique I’d received my first day.
“Hey, at least you don’t dress like a slob. A couple of my friends could use some tips.”
I smiled. “Eh, better than a hospital gown, right?”
“Ugh, I hope to never spend weeks living in one again.”
I snickered. “Right?”
Some days we wore sweats, anything easy to slip on and off, and mostly for warmth, but most days we were too sick to care.
“Who do you room with on campus?”
“My best friend, Spence.”
By now I’d heard all the popular players’ names, and Spencer—or rather Spence—sounded familiar. I lowered my voice. “Does he know about you or your past?”
“No, we met on the field the summer before freshman year and became fast friends.”
“Still, it must be hard not to have anyone to talk to about that stuff.”
He smiled. “Well, now I have you.”
I ignored the warmth that flooded my stomach.
“Your friends might wonder what’s up, our past connection and all.”
“Not unless one of us trips up. Besides, it’s not like I want to hang around athletes all the time.”
I huffed, pretending to be offended. “Dancers are athletes too, you know.”
“It’s true! The way you do some of those twirls or moves or whatever they’re called—” His hand crashed over his mouth.
