The Locker Room(3)

Why is he so familiar?

Those eyes.

“Not a problem, but you could have asked for help if you were lost. Slapping me with a map is an aggressive tactic, effective, but aggressive.”

That voice, that smirk. I know it from somewhere.

Feeling a light blush creep up my cheeks, I say, “Not used to the wind.”

He nods and thumbs behind him. “Lake Michigan. It’s a bitch in the winter.” He studies me for a second and then nods at my map. “Where you headed? I can help.” There is the smallest southern drawl in his voice, nothing strong, but enough to tell me he’s not from Illinois.

I know that voice. I remember specifically thinking it was hot.

Tamping down my map and folding it in my book that I snap shut quickly, I say, “I promised I’d figure this all out on my own, but looks like I might need a little help after all.”

“Don’t blame yourself; this campus is a maze with no rhyme or reason. I was lost my entire first semester. Can’t tell you how many times I was late to class.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He tilts his head to the side and gives me a small once-over. “I know you.” I don’t say anything and just as his eyes land on my chest, a smile creeps over his face, a light bulb lighting in his head. “You’re the girl who helped me find my room on Saturday.”

Oh.

Shit.

It’s the yellow-door baseball guy.

He leans forward, hands stuffed in his pockets and says, “I never forget a good pair of tits.”

As if I wasn’t blushing enough already.

“It’s a shame I passed out with my hand holding one. I’m usually smoother than that. If anything, I think I owe you a nipple tweak.”

If I opened my book back up, would I be able to sink into the pages, allowing the literature to swallow me whole?

“I didn’t even remember passing out with a tit in hand until my buddy told me he walked in to make sure I was okay, saw me cupping you while we were both passed out.” He scratches the side of his jaw. “Still getting shit for that.”

I . . . what does someone even say to that?

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I won’t reveal your identity. Clutching a tit is between said man and a lady. No gossiping here. How’s your boob, by the way? Still trying to run away?” He chuckles. I’m mortified.

I push my hair behind my ear and stare at my Mary Janes. “Uh . . . everything’s intact. Thank you.”

“Good, you calmed the old girl down.” He takes in a deep breath, acting so casually. “Where you off to?”

Why are guys like this? So easygoing, as if they weren’t humiliated enough to warrant crawling back into your mother’s womb? I’m pretty chill, but reliving a moment like Saturday night isn’t a top priority of mine. More like “let’s forget it ever happened” because passing out with my boob in a strange man’s hand isn’t one of my finest of moments. Nothing to scrapbook.

Wanting to move on from reminiscing, I say, “I’m looking for the MacMillan building. I have class in ten minutes, and I have no idea if I’m in the right area or not.” I need to get some distance from him. “I can figure it out though. Uh, good to see you again.” I start walking away, showing confidence in my shoulders even if I have no idea where I’m going.

“Hold up.” He grabs my shoulder before I can slink away and turns me in the opposite direction. “Going the wrong way.” Oh hell. “I’m headed there as well, so you can walk with me.” Of course he is. He grips the straps of his backpack as he nods in front of us, casually directing me where to go.

“Oh, that would be great. Thanks.” Not really, but doesn’t seem like I have a choice at this moment. I fall in line next to him and immediately feel awkward, unsure of what to say to this guy whose hand became my boob’s overnight cushion as we drooled on his ultra-comfy pillows.

Do I compliment his pillows?

Ask him if he still thinks my boob was heavy?

Tell him I don’t normally let my breasts fall out of my shirt?

Lucky for me, his easygoing personality reflects in conversation. “Are you a freshman?”

“No. Junior transfer. What about you?” Might as well fill in the awkward silence.

“Junior as well, but I’ve been here since I was a freshman.” He holds his hand out to the side. “Knox Gentry.”

I take it and give it an uncoordinated shake as we keep walking forward. “Emory Ealson.”

“Well, Em, what class are you headed to?”

Em. Not even my parents call me that, but I’m not about to make a stink about it, not when he’s my personal tour guide.

“Developmentally Effective Learning Environments.”

“Huh.” He smiles at me, sticking his hands back in his pockets. “Me too.” That’s unfortunately convenient. “What are you majoring in?”

“Early education. I plan on getting my master’s in library sciences.”

“Is that why you’re hiding a map of the school in your copy of Pride and Prejudice?”

Busted.

“Was it that obvious?”

“No one is that into the insufferable Mr. Darcy.” He tacks on a dramatic eye-roll, and, even though he’s insulting one of the greatest heroes ever written, I can’t help but get a little excited because it seems like he’s read it.