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And as uncomfortable as working with Rylan will be, I’m not accustomed to letting a girl affect my life. I do whatever I feel like, and they accommodate me. There’s a prickle of annoyance, realizing I’m letting her dictate my decisions, just like she did the night we hooked up. Stubbornly, I don’t want to be the one who admits defeat and avoids her.
I’ve eaten up all the time I had until my first class working on thisoneassignment, meaning I still have a pile of other work to finish later. Short of ten-page final papers or group projects, Idon’t think I’ve ever put this much effort into any homework before.
So you failed, huh?
It’s practice all over again. I memorized every judgmental insult she tossed my way, I guess.
I say goodbye to Conor—his earliest class is at eleven, lucky bastard—and then head in the direction of the building that houses the Business department. I leave my headphones on, using them as an excuse not to talk to anyone as I walk across campus.
My mood is a shit one—again. Lately, it feels like that’s been an endless stretch. And it’s not just my family, as much as I love to blame them for everything. It’s realizing some of their criticisms are valid. I have absolutely no clue what I’ll do after graduation in May, and even if though that’s still months away, I know it’ll be here before I know it. And that’s assuming Idograduate, which is no longer any guarantee. The girl who’s supposed to be my guarantee happens to hate—or at least strongly dislike—me. Rylan sprinted from Hart’s SUV like it was on fire after I drove her home the other night.
I just need to refocus. Keep my head down and get my work done this week. I’m sure the sophomores will throw a party on Friday night. I’ll have a couple of drinks, hook up with a girl whoisn’tRylan Keller, and be in fantastic shape for Saturday’s game.
Hell, if I play anywhere close to how I performed during practice today, there’s a good chance I’ll break my no-scoring streak.
I’m one of the last to enter my Leadership in Organizations class, which is no surprise. If it’s not hockey-related, I tend to run a few minutes late.
Honestly, I would probably run a few minutes late to hockey if I didn’t live with Hart, who thinks his role of captain requires military-like precision when it comes to time-keeping.
I settle into a seat in the back row, flashing a grin at a girl in the row in front when she looks back at me and smiles.
She blushes before quickly looking away, and I’m weirdly irritated by the coyness on her face when she glances back a minute later. The cat and mouse game.
I bet Rylan would hold eye contact.
The thought is random and unwelcome.
So what if her boldness was an anomaly? That I was as attracted to her forwardness as her body?
She’s. Off. Limits.
And…it’s not like her reaction to finding out we attend the same college was happiness. Or any suggestion we should hook up again, this time on dry land.
Fucking figures, the one girl I’m interested in fucking again is, at best, indifferent to the idea.Uninterested would probably be more accurate. Pretty sure Rylan Keller thinks I’m an unmotivated, brainless jock. And she’s not entirelywrong, which bothers me even more than her judgment. If you look at my hockey stats and my grades, I don’t have anything impressive to show for my college years. I highly doubt any potential employer is going to ask how long I can do a keg stand for or my best pick-up line, and those are the only skills I’ve put any significant effort into improving.
Class begins with a couple of questions from students about the syllabus.
Our homework from the first class was to review it. There’s a red stain on the third page of mine, proof I shouldn’t have skimmed it while eating spaghetti last night.
I partially zone out as the professor doubles down on herno technologypolicy, citing several papers that conclude laptops are a distraction and welcoming anyone who disagrees to write an essay with at least ten academic sources. That shuts up complaintsfast. The food policy gets challenged next, which is when I start doodling hockey pucks in the margin of my notebook. Literally all I’ve written for this course so far.
By the time the professor gets through the syllabus questions, there are only forty minutes left in class. I send out a silentthank youto the kid who spent ten minutes clarifying her office hours. That was the one topic the professor totally indulged.
Today’s topic is inclusive leadership, and how to includeIinwe. Seems ironic, considering my selfishness during practice earlier. I take careful notes on the lecture, grab the reading packet for next week’s class when it gets passed around, and am overall a model student for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t even look when the girl sitting next to me leans down to grab her water bottle out of her backpack over and over again, her shirt gaping forward every damn time.
The professor ends class at exactly eleven twenty, which makes me like her even more. Nothing worse than professors pretending not to pay attention to the time on the clock so they can squeeze in some extra material to add to the final.
The girl in front of me glances back a couple more times as everyone rushes to pack up.
Usually, I’d hang around, waiting to see if she approached me. Come up with a few compliments, maybe invite her to the party on Friday night.
Instead, I’m one of the first people out the door.
CHAPTER NINE
RYLAN
There are two impatient knocks on my door. A pause, then a third.
