Good Boy (WAGs #1)(54)

“You want me to quiz you while you get ready?” she asks.

If it had come from anyone else, the offer might have been construed as considerate. But there’s a hint of smugness in Violet’s tone. Sure, we’ve been getting along better since the icebreaker at Sticks & Stones, but that doesn’t change the fact that Violet is super competitive. She crows every time she does better than me on a quiz, gloats whenever our clinical instructors give her any praise, and constantly makes sure to remind me that she’s at the top of our class.

I’m nowhere near the top. I’m not on the bottom, either. More like middle of the pack, which is a frustrating place to be. I’m killing it in the practical stuff (I secretly do some gloating of my own every time our instructor tells me how wonderful I am with patients), but the academic part is more difficult than I’d expected. Of course, that’s the part that Violet excels in, and she never lets me forget it.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” I answer as I slip into a V-neck T-shirt. “I don’t like to go over the material right before a test. It clouds up my brain.”

She shrugs. “Cool. I don’t need any last-minute prep, either. I had that textbook memorized before school even started.”

Of course she did.

I duck into the common bathroom on our floor, Violet trailing behind me. After some hurried teeth-and hair-brushing, I shove a stick of deodorant underneath my shirt and swipe it over my underarms, then zip up my toiletry case.

Five minutes later, Violet and I have grabbed coffees from the stand in our lobby and are making our way across campus. My insides churn with every step I take. I’m so fucking nervous, and chugging half a cup of coffee on an empty stomach isn’t helping to ease those nerves.

The way this program is set up, most of our courses are on a pass/fail basis. This one is the exception—a score of seventy percent or higher is required in order to pass the course. This is the grade they’ll be checking when they review the status of my scholarship.

The good thing is, I’ve already passed all my other classes, so this is my last final. But I can’t afford to do poorly this morning. I have to kick this final’s ass.

“So what’s the deal with you and Blake Riley? Did you break up?”

Violet’s curious question jerks me out of my panic spiral. “What? No. I mean, we weren’t going out in the first place.”

“But you went to that charity thing with him last week. There were pictures all over the internet of the two of you dancing.”

Were there? In all honesty, I’ve been in a study bubble for the past ten days. Blake hasn’t even crossed my mind. Nobody has. In fact, last night I got a text from Jamie that simply said: You alive? I messaged back, Studying. Leave me alone. And that’s pretty much the only contact I’ve had with the outside world since the Broken Paws benefit.

“You of all people should know that I’ve been married to my desk this week,” I remind Violet. “I haven’t had time to see anyone.”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t texted you at all,” she points out. “Before the charity party, he was texting you all the time.”

I furrow my brow, because 1) she’s been monitoring my text messages?? And 2) she’s right. It’s been a while since Blake sent me one of his randomly absurd texts. Or his deliciously filthy sexts.

Is he avoiding me? Maybe he’s mad at me?

Why would he be, though? Our on-and-off friends-with-benefits arrangement has suited us both. Besides, Blake is incapable of being mad at someone. He’s the man who lets his evil, lying ex consort with his poor unsuspecting family because he doesn’t want to tarnish her reputation. I doubt he even knows the meaning of anger.

Still, I’m not thrilled with the idea that he might be ghosting me. I like this casual, have-sex-once-in-a-while thing we’ve got going on. It’s the perfect stress release, a nice orgasmic break from my chaotic schedule and an effective temporary-amnesia inducer that makes me forget about my empty bank account.

“I guess he’s been busy,” I finally respond.

Violet gives me a look.

“What?”

“Um, he’s a hockey player, Jess. If he hasn’t called you, that doesn’t mean he’s busy. It means he’s busy.”

I raise my foam cup to my lips and take a sip. “Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s screwing other people.”

The coffee gets stuck in my throat, and it takes a few seconds of coughing to clear it. “He’s not screwing other people,” I sputter. “And even if he was…” I trail off. Even if he was, what? I’d be okay with it?

I mean, I guess I’d have to be okay with it. Blake and I never talked about us being exclusive. We agreed that our sexcapades weren’t going to be a habit. So how could I be mad if he’s seeing other women? And why did it take so long for the thought to even occur to me? Blake has the attention span of a fruit fly. He probably forgets I exist the moment he zips up his pants and walks away.

My chest clenches at the thought. Okay, that stings. And the idea of him having sex with someone else while also sleeping with me sends a hot streak of…something… up my spine. Oh no. I think it might be jealousy.

Violet speaks up again when I don’t continue. “All I’m saying is, most of the Toronto roster is made up of manwhores, and Blake Riley has always been one of them. If you don’t lock him down, he’s going to move on to some other girl.”