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I’m in a meeting with Megan to review the results of the Day in the Life social media campaign that we did with Liam. The results were great, with fantastic engagement, lots of comments and reposts, and a significant boost in new followers.
When she mentioned that the post of Liam at the library did especially well, that’s when I got lost in the rabbit hole of my thoughts and feelings.
“I said, I think it would be great if you could make it out to one of the upcoming away games,” Megan says. “Naturally, home games always generate more interest than away games. A lot more. It would be a big win if we could get engagement during home games and away games more equalized.”
I don’t think Megan would suggest something like that if she weren’t really impressed by the performance of my first task; if she didn’t have confidence in me.
And impressing someone like Megan, who runs social media for an enormously popular and well-known college sports team, can only mean good things for my future.
“Definitely,” I immediately agree, jumping at the opportunity.
“Excellent,” she says. “I’m thinking of our upcoming game against Ohio on their turf next weekend. You could ride up with the players and your father on their bus.”
I swallow thickly. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Liam makes my body thrum—but the thought of my dad also being in that enclosed space makes my stomach churn with anxiety.
I don’t let it show. “Sounds great.”
“Fantastic,” Megan says with a smile. Then, as usual, instead of telling me I can go now, she simply turns her full attention back to the work on her computer. I’ve learned to read the room and take it as my cue to head out.
As I’m making my way through the maze-like series of hallways that make up the interior of the hockey arena, I start to feel something. A kind of anticipation that pricks at the nape of my neck.
When I turn another corner into a new section of the hallway, Liam’s walking in the opposite direction, towards me.
He stops in his tracks when our eyes meet. A crackling electric tension rushes in to fill the air of the corridor, so thick that it feels like I could float on it if I just let myself fall backwards.
“Zoey.” My name rumbles from his lips, sounding like music on his low, gravely voice. His eyes burn on me.
I let my own eyes crawl up his body. He wears a loose pair of athletic shorts that show off his long, muscular legs, where he has a bandage wrapped around one knee. He wears a black Hot Shots t-shirt that his broad, stacked chest strains against, and his bulging shoulder muscles fill out the sleeves, leaving all the tantalizing, sinewy muscles that cover the length of his arms exposed.
“Oh. Hey, Liam,” I say, trying to sound casual and fully realizing just how badly I fail at the task.
“You feeling okay?” he asks.
I’m so flustered just from seeing him, just from being this close to his body, remembering how I let my palms and fingertips glide up and down the mountain range of his ab muscles, how I grabbed a hold of his trim, muscular hips when I fell to my knees to take him in my mouth, that my face is must be tomato red.
“Of course. Fine. Why?” I sputter.
“You weren’t in Psych class on Thursday,” he says.
That’s a relief. He’s worried because I missed the last class session that we have together, not because I look like I’m about to pass out, which is how I feel.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just woke up with a really bad headache that day. I couldn’t put up with Dr. Horowitz’s droning for fifty minutes straight in that condition.”
Liam laughs, a smooth and sultry sound that makes my stomach feel like liquid. “Yeah, I bet. It’s grating even when you don’t have a headache. Here,” he says, swinging off his bookbag and unzipping it in front of his body. He reaches in and pulls out a couple sheets of paper stapled together. “Here’s a copy of Thursday’s notes. You know how much content he drops every single class session, so I didn’t want you to be behind after missing one.”
Heat warms my cheeks, and this time, it’s not just from the sexual tension. “Wow, thanks, Liam,” I say, feeling my lips curl into a smile. “Are you sure you don’t need them?”
He shakes his head, “I said it’s a copy for a reason. You’d never be able to read the first draft of the notes I took for myself.” He peeks behind him to make sure no one else is in the hallway before adding in a low voice, “Artistic talent doesn’t necessarily go with good handwriting.”
I thank him again through a giggle. I take the notes.
“Oh, check out the back side,” he says.
I flip the papers over and another laugh bubbles from me. It’s another little comic.
At the top of the paper in big bold letters are the words,I Hope You’re Like …and below them is a sketch of cartoon me lounging on a beach chair, sipping from a topical drink. Then below that are the wordsAnd Not Like …above another sketch of cartoon me wrapped in a blank with a big, swollen nose, surrounded by crumpled tissues.
“This is so good,” I say. I have my eyes on the drawing, marveling at Liam’s skills, until his voice rips my attention away from it.
