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“I’m good, thanks.”
Zara nods, then leaves without offering Hart any.
“I love ketchup,” he grumbles.
“Shut up.” I flick a fry at him.
“Do I need to text Hunter for a ride home?”
“No.”
I can only imagine the complaining from Morgan if he did. One, that his study whatever got interrupted. Two, that it was so I could hook up.
Or maybe he’d be relieved, thinking I’ve moved on from our coach’s daughter like he told me to.
I take a big bite of burger, then glance down at my phone screen.
Still stubbornly black.
I haven’t moved on. But I obviously should.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RYLAN
Itighten the scarf around my neck, my watering eyes focused on the stone pavers of the path as I walk across them as quickly as my leather riding boots will allow.
I’m headed in the direction of the sports complex, which happens to be the same way the wind is blowing from. It feels like walking toward a fan blowing frigid air. Icy blasts comb through my hair and burn my cheeks.
All of the athletic buildings are located on the far edge of campus.
A long walk in nice weather. A miserable one during the cold snap Somerville is currently experiencing.
The usual dampness in the air has been replaced by a bitter bite. And since I looked awful the last time he saw me, I’ve dressed up extra this week on the off chance I run into Aidan. I haven’t, which I thought would be a relief. Instead, I’m scanning the rink’s parking lot for his truck, disappointed when I don’t spot the distinctive bright shade.
I should have worn sweatpants instead of this cute, impractical skirt.
My dad’s old SUV is one of the only vehicles in the lot. I’m having dinner at my parents’ tonight, and my dad is giving me a ride from the rink.
There’s no sign of my dad, just his car, so I keep walking toward the main entrance.
The double doors open right before I reach them, and Conor Hart walks out. His dark hair is damp, and he has a hockey bag slung over one shoulder.
The first thing I do is glance behind him to see if anyone else is coming out. He’s alone, and I quickly snuff out the disappointment that appears again.
Conor smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo.
Both of us pause, neither saying anything.
“I’m Rylan,” I remind him.
“Right. I remember. Aidan’s tutor.”
Better than being called the coach’s daughter, I guess.
But I don’t like being referred to as Aidan’s anything. Or rather, I like it too much. It’s the possessive way he pulled my hips down onto his mouth in verbal form.
