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The first night, the dreams took things further, and I woke up covered in sweat and gasping for air. The bedsheets felt like a vise around me, but kicking them away didn’t help. The second night, the scene turned into a nightmare, where we were discovered by both Strikes and Bolts. Insults and mockery rained on us until Max decided he was better off pushing me away.
Mondays always suck, but even more when you have to see the guy you’ve developed a teeny-tiny crush on in class. And more so when all you should be doing is avoiding him.
My plan was to get to class late so I wouldn’t have to sit near him. Unfortunately, training’s done early, and I have nowhere else to release all this nervous energy, since the rest of the team are heading to their own classes or back to sleep.
I skate as slowly as possible through campus on my Marsblades. I pause to put on the cardigan I strapped around my waist. Pause again to do up its buttons. Someone asks me for directions, and I give them the most detailed outline of the planet. I make a detour to get juice from a vending machine, and take my sweet time drinking it before I resume the trek.
It’s still fifteen minutes too early when I make it to the classroom. Even after taking forever to change into sneakers and put the inline skates in my bag. Max’s roommate evades my eyes as I find my seat. Serves him right for being such a judgmental prick.
Max is nowhere to be found yet.
I tense up even more. The seats around me are empty. He could walk in at any minute and head right over.
Then what? How am I going to face him? Or, more to the point, how am I going to face him and pretend that nothing’s changed? Because, in theory, nothing has. We’re two barely-acquaintances who are the captains of teams that hate each other.
And he terrifies me.
Somehow, with his Tinker Bell this and Tinker Bell that, with his easy smiles and the twinkle in his eyes, he disarmed me. I didn’t ask him to. In fact, I didn’t even flirt with him. But he still sneaked his way past my defenses.
What could he do if I just opened the doors and let him waltz in?
He would take over.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I burrow deeper into my cardigan. I didn’t fight my parents so hard to keep playing hockey in college just to get sidetracked by a hot guy. But I know in my heart of hearts that Max Cassiano could take that number one spot. I can’t let him.
I keep a discreet watch of the front door until the lecturer arrives. As class starts, I take a look around but still don’t spot him. It’s almost ten minutes in when he makes his way through the back door and sits in the very back row, far away from me.
He spends the entire period with his attention on the lecture. Not a single time does he glance my way.
I do sneak several looks at him at different intervals. He’s as stoic as a soldier throughout. When the class ends, he picks up his things and bolts out of the room.
We have a standing study session at the library every Monday afternoon until we’re done with the project, so it’s not like I’m off the hook. But I also can’t call him to cancel, because I don’t have his freaking number. I’ll just have to show up.
My cortisol levels are on high all day. For the first time I can remember, I’m unable to eat any lunch. My stomach is in knots when I walk into the library, but I don’t find him anywhere.
I sit at the same table as before. Maybe five minutes pass, and he still doesn’t arrive, so I figure I should busy myself with other coursework. While I’m setting up, someone tries to sit across from me, and I tell them the spot’s taken. Obviously by a ghost. But the guy agrees to sit somewhere else.
There’s a sudden shift in the noise volume. Someone gasps, and I turn. The cause strides across the library, blue eyes trained on me.
A nearby girl whispers to a friend. “Wow, who is that?”
Trouble, that’s who.
Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, as if expecting a defense player from another team to ram into me. Instead, Max pulls up the chair across from me and sits down.
“Sorry I’m late.”
That’s it. No other explanation.
The amount of focus he uses as he takes out a few things from his backpack compares to a faceoff before a game.
The girls nearby who tracked his progress from the entrance glare at me as if I’m public enemy number one. Every one of his girlfriends probably had to live with this. Not that I’m his girlfriend. Nor do I want to be. Nor would I be, if I wanted.
Maybe I should say I have cramps and just go take a nap. I sure feel exhausted already.
“I was reviewing what we worked on last time,” Max says while firing up his iPad. “But I think we need more reference material. Everything reads more like wishful thinking than data-driven fact.”
Funny, that’s exactly how I feel about him right now.
