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Once the girls in front of me finish up their conversation, I order a coffee and my muffin. The blonde working the register is cheerful and pleasant, which helps.
So far, everyone I’ve met at Holt has been incredibly nice. Chloe marked the locations of all my classes on a campus map for me last night. She’s by far the most outgoing of my new roommates, but Malia and Dakota are both sweet too.
I pay, take the bag with my muffin, and then head toward the end of the counter.
I’m standing and scrolling on my phone, waiting for my coffee to appear, when there’s a sudden burst of activity.
The entire coffee shop seems to perk up, especially the blonde at the register and the brunette working the espressomachine. The barista knocks over an entire stack of paper cups as the sound of loud male voices fills the smallish space.
I glance over at the group of new arrivals, then do a double take.
Not because they’re attractive guys—although they are—but because three of the four are wearing Holt Hockey jackets.
This is as strange for me as being on Holt’s campus as a student.
The last time I attended a Holt hockey game was back in middle school. I was eleven, maybe twelve at the time. After that, I was too preoccupied by my own interests to go to any games. It just became my dad’s job to me, something separate from my own life. My mom still goes occasionally, just to support him, but hockey has always been my dad’s thing. Neither my mom nor I are that invested in sports.
All I recall from that game years ago is it was long and boring. I didn’t pay attention to much, certainly not the college-aged guys on the ice who seemed awfully old at the time.
It’s bizarre, realizing these players aren’t just peers, they’re guys my dad spends a lot of time around.
In the past few years, they’ve seen him more often than I have.
I look down at my phone screen before any of them catch me staring in their direction. Let my hair fall forward to shield most of my face, like I have my last name stamped across my forehead and there’s some way they’ll be able to tell exactly who I am at first glance.
My drink arrives a few minutes later.
I thank the barista and head for the door, passing the group of hockey players. Most of them are busy relaying orders to the blonde, but one glances my way and grins. I smile back automaticallybut continue walking quickly, not wanting to engage in conversation.
Post-Walker, I’m focusing on myself, not guys. Not that I’m against having some fun, because I’m not, but the bar for that was recently set pretty high. My standards have been reset. And I want simple and uncomplicated. One of my dad’s players is not that.
I take my time walking across the path that cuts through the campus green, enjoying the sunshine warming my face as I alternate between sips of coffee and bites of muffin. By the time I reach the brick building that houses the mathematics department—and therefore most of my classes—the bag with my muffin is mostly crumbs and my cup is half-empty. I toss the bag in the trash and climb the steps toward the carved wooden door. Tug at the handle.
Nothing happens.
I tug again.
Nothing.
Check the time on my watch. It’s five to nine, and there were some eight-thirty classes on the schedule. None I had to take, thankfully, but there’s no reason this building should be locked.
“Try pushing.”
I startle at the sound of the unfamiliar voice behind me, glancing over one shoulder at the guy who’s appeared. His dark hair is cut short, and he’s wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.
Unlike the hockey guys, who were all wearing sweats, he’s dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a green sweater over a button-down. More how I’m used to students looking from being abroad. I feel overdressed—all the other girls I’ve seen on campus so far have been wearing leggings.
I press the handle again, this time pushing instead of pulling. It opens easily, so I step inside, holding the door open for the guy behind me.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“No problem. This is the oldest building on campus, and that door has some old-fashioned lock mechanism. You’re not the first person to have trouble with it. The architect who designed the campus was pissed because they changed the design of the other academic buildings so they didn’t have to deal with the door again.”
I stare at him, not sure what to say.
He grimaces. “Sorry. I work in the Admissions Office showing prospective students around. I know tons of useless facts about Holt’s campus.” He pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Are you new?”
“Yeah. That obvious I just transferred here, huh?”
