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“All right.” He finally shrugs and flicks up his eyebrows. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RYDER
The universe approves
“LUKE, STOP!”
I wake up Friday morning in a cold sweat. It’s soaked through the T-shirt I fell asleep in last night, pasting it to my chest. The terrified voice still reverberates through the cobwebs of my barely alert brain. I banish it because the last thing I need is to start my day engulfed in darkness.
But the nightmare proves to be an omen. When I roll over in bed to grab my phone, there’s a missed call from a Phoenix area code and a voicemail notification.
Fuck.
I sit up and punch in my passcode.
“Luke, this is Peter Greene, Maricopa County Attorney’s office. I tried contacting you a few weeks ago. My office also reached out via email, although I’m not certain we have the correct address; the one I have on file is quite old. I understand this might be a sensitive subject for you, but we do need to discuss the hearing and—”
“Your message has been deleted.”
I toss the phone on the mattress and stumble into the hall toward the bathroom to shower. I plan to be at the performance center at 8:00 a.m. today rather than 7:00. Now that classes are officially underway, I need to cut back on the extra training and not push myself so hard.
Everyone on the hockey team has only afternoon classes this semester because of our morning skate and training schedule. Beckett catches a ride to campus with me, but Shane says he’ll take his own car. We leave him in the kitchen at the blender, preparing a protein shake.
On the drive, Beckett chats about some movie he watched yesterday, but I’m only half listening. My mind is preoccupied with the same damn thing that’s been eating away at it for three days now.
Gigi Graham.
It’s been three days since we kissed.
Or rather, since one kiss from her got my dick so hard I could barely drive home with the damn thing trying to tunnel its way out of my pants and poke the steering wheel.
I honestly thought she’d call me by now.
And I shouldn’t be as disappointed as I am that she hasn’t.
With our first game coming up, practices have taken on a greater sense of urgency. Jensen works us hard this morning. Afterward, we pile into the media room to watch Northeastern game tape. They’ll be our first opponent of the season.
While we wait for Assistant Coach Peretti to arrive, I continue to fixate on Gigi’s silence and apparent decision to pretend that wasn’t the hottest kiss either of us had ever experienced.
I didn’t imagine that heat. We were both so hot for each other we were liable to burst into flames.
I try to push it out of my mind as my teammates blabber around me. As usual, the former Eastwood guys take up most of the second row, while the original Briars comprise the first one.
“All I’m saying is, you can’t prove wormholes don’t exist,” Beckett is contending, even as he texts on his phone with some chick. He’s a solid multitasker when it comes to time travel and sex.
“And you can’t prove they do exist,” Nazzy says in exasperation.
“Naz. Bro. You’re fighting a losing battle,” Shane advises. He’s also texting. He met another cheerleader at a frat party last night. Dude’s plowing through the cheer team like he’s trying to win nationals himself.
“I need to ask a question right now, and I need you all to promise you won’t judge me,” Patrick says nervously.
“Nobody is promising that,” Rand informs him.
“Forget it then.”
Rand chortles. “Right. Like we’re letting you get away with not asking it now.”
“I said forget it.” Patrick stubbornly shakes his head.
“Captain?” someone prompts me.
“Cocaptain,” comes Trager’s snide voice from the front row, but we all ignore him.
“Ask the question,” I mutter to the Kansas Kid.
“So, ah, wormholes.” He hesitates, looking around the group. “Are there worms in them?”
He’s greeted by pure silence. Even Will Larsen has twisted around in his seat to stare at Patrick.
“Theoretical worms?” Patrick corrects. He looks utterly lost. “Am I saying it right?”
Shane takes pity on him. “It’s okay. You’re really handsome.”
He doesn’t realize he’s being insulted until after Shane has already gone back to texting his cheerleader.
“Wait. Fuck you,” Patrick growls.
“There aren’t any worms in them,” Beckett says in a shockingly kind tone. “Basically, wormholes are these warped areas in space that connect two distant points…”
I tune them out again. I already have to deal with this at home. I’m not allowing Beckett Dunne to ruin my life on campus too.
An hour later we’re dismissed, and I cross the quad toward the ancient ivy-covered building that houses all my lectures for the day.
It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it didn’t take long for me to determine that, academically, Briar is much tougher than Eastwood. I’m a business admin major with a minor in history, and already both disciplines are piling a mountain of work on me. I have two papers due next week, and then two more literally a week later. Fucking brutal. Maybe it’s an Ivy thing.
