The Deal (Off-Campus, #1)(43)

I hand over the paper I’d fixed up, then lean back on the pillows as Hannah reads it. Once she’s done, she looks over at me, and I can tell she’s impressed. “This is pretty good,” she admits.

Damned if I don’t experience a burst of pride. I slaved over this Nazi paper, and Hannah’s praise not only pleases me, but it also confirms that I’m getting better at putting myself in someone else’s headspace.

“Actually, it’s really good,” she amends as she skims the conclusion again.

I mock gasp. “Holy shit. Was that a compliment?”

“Nope. I take it back. It sucks ass.”

“Too late.” I wag my finger at her. “You think I’m smart.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re smart when you apply yourself.” She pauses. “Okay, so this might be a total dick thing to say, but I always assumed the school was easier on athletes. Academically, I mean. You know, handing out free A’s because you guys are so important.”

“I wish. I know a few guys on the Eastwood team whose professors don’t even read their papers—they just slap an A on them and hand them back. But the Briar profs make us work for it. Assholes.”

“How are you doing in your other courses?”

“A’s across the board, and a pesky C in Spanish history, but that’ll change once I turn in my final paper.” I smirk. “Guess I’m not the dumb jock you thought I was, huh?”

“I never thought you were dumb.” She sticks out her tongue. “I thought you were a jackass.”

“Thought?” I pounce on her use of the past tense. “Does that mean you’ve seen the error of your ways?”

“Naah, you’re still a jackass.” She grins. “But at least you’re a smart one.”

“Smart enough to ace this midterm?” My spirits sink as I voice the question. The makeup is tomorrow, and I’m starting to stress about it again. I’m not sure I’m ready, but Hannah’s confidence eases some of my uncertainty.

“Definitely,” she assures me. “As long as you keep your own bias out of it and stick to what the philosophers would do, I think you’ll be fine.”

“I better be. I really need this grade, Wellsy.”

Her voice softens. “The team’s that important to you?”

“It’s my whole life,” I say simply.

“Your life? Whoa. You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself, Garrett.”

“You want to talk about pressure?” Bitterness colors my tone. “Pressure is being seven years old and forced to go on a high-protein diet to promote growth. Pressure is being woken up at the crack of dawn six days a week to skate and run drills while your father blows a whistle in your face for two hours. Pressure is being told that if you fail, you’ll never be a real man.”

Her face goes stricken. “Shit.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.” I try to push the memories away, but they keep flashing through my mind, tightening my throat. “Trust me, the pressure I put on myself is nothing compared to what I had to deal with growing up.”

She narrows her eyes. “You told me you love hockey.”

“I do love it.” My voice goes hoarse. “When I’m on the ice, it’s the only time I feel…alive, I guess. And believe me, I’m going to work my ass off to get to where I want to be. I…f*ck, I can’t fail.”

“What happens if you do?” she counters. “What’s your backup plan?”

I frown. “I don’t have one.”

“Everyone needs a Plan B,” Hannah insists. “What if you get injured and can’t play anymore?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d be a coach. Or maybe a sportscaster.”

“See, you do have a plan, then.”

“I guess so.” I eye her curiously. “What’s your Plan B? If you don’t make it as a singer?”

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t know if I even want to be a singer. I mean, I love it, I really do, but doing it professionally is a whole other story. I’m not crazy about the idea of living out of a suitcase or spending all my time on a tour bus. And yeah, I like singing in front of an audience, but I’m not sure I want to be on stage in front of thousands of people on a nightly basis.” She shrugs, looking thoughtful. “Sometimes I think I’d rather be a songwriter. I enjoy composing music, so I wouldn’t mind working behind the scenes and letting someone else do the whole star thing. If that doesn’t work out, I could go into teaching.” She gives a self-deprecating smile. “And if that fails, I could always try my hand at stripping.”

I sweep my gaze up and down her body, making a big show out of licking my lips. “Well, you’ve definitely got the tits for it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Pervert.”

“Hey, I’m just stating a fact. Your tits are great. I don’t know why you don’t flaunt ’em more. You know, throw a few low-cut tops into your wardrobe rotation.”

A pink blush blooms in her cheeks. I love how quickly she goes from serious and sassy to shy and innocent.

“By the way, you can’t do that on Saturday,” I inform her.

“What, strip?” she says mockingly.