The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(14)

My gaze eats him up eagerly. He’s wearing his hockey jacket again. His auburn hair is windblown, cheeks ruddy as if he’d just come in from the cold. Faded blue jeans encase his impossibly long legs, and he’s got his hands hooked lightly in the tops of his pockets.

“Tucker,” I squeak.

His lips quirk up. “Sabrina.”

“W-what are you doing here?” Oh my God. I’m stuttering. What’s wrong with me?

Someone jostles me from behind. I hastily step away from the doorway to let the other students out. I’m not sure what to say, but I know what I want to do. I want to throw myself at this guy, wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and maul him with my mouth.

But I don’t.

“You’re ignoring my texts,” he says frankly.

Guilt tickles my throat. I’m not ignoring his texts—I haven’t gotten them. Because I blocked his number.

Still, my heart does another silly flip at the knowledge that he’s been texting. I suddenly wish I knew what he’d said, but I’m not going to ask him. That’s just looking for trouble.

For some stupid reason, though, I find myself confessing, “I blocked you.”

Rather than look offended, he chuckles. “Yeah. I figured you might’ve. That’s why I tracked you down.”

I narrow my eyes. “And how did you do that, exactly? How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I asked my advisor for your schedule.”

My jaw falls open. “And she gave it to you?”

“He, actually. And yep, he was happy to do it.”

Disbelief and indignation mingle in my blood. What the hell? The faculty can’t just hand out students’ schedules to anyone who asks for them, right? That’s a violation of privacy. I grit my teeth and decide that the moment I pass the bar, my first order of legal business will be suing this stupid college.

“Did he give you my transcript too?” I mutter.

“No. And don’t worry, I’m sure your schedule isn’t being passed around in flier-form around campus. He only gave it to me because I play hockey.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? The reminder that you’re a privileged jackass who gets special treatment because you skate around on the ice and win trophies?”

I take off walking, my pace brisk, but he’s big enough that his strides eat up the ground and he’s beside me in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely regretful. “If it helps, I don’t normally play the athlete card to get favors. Hell, I could’ve asked Dean for your schedule, but I figured you’d like that even less.”

He’s right about that. The thought of Tucker talking to Dean Di Laurentis about me makes my skin crawl.

“Fine. Well, you tracked me down. What do you want, Tucker?” I walk faster.

“What’s the hurry, darlin’?”

“My life,” I mumble.

“What?”

“I’m always in a hurry,” I clarify. “I’ve got twenty minutes to get some food in me before my next class.”

We reach the lobby, where I instantly get in line at the sandwich stand, scanning the menu on the wall. The student in front of us leaves the counter before Tucker can speak. I hurriedly step forward to place my order. When I reach into my bag for my wallet, Tucker’s hand drops over mine.

“I’ve got this,” he says, already drawing a twenty-dollar bill from his brown leather wallet.

I don’t know why, but that annoys me even more. “First drinks at Malone’s, and now lunch? What, you’re trying to show off? Making sure I know you’ve got cash to spare?”

Hurt flickers in his deep brown eyes.

Fuck. I don’t know why I’m antagonizing him. It’s just…him showing up here, admitting he pulled favors to find me, paying for my lunch…

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and now he’s in my face and I don’t like it.

No, that’s not true. I love having his face near mine. He’s so sexy, and he smells so good, like sandalwood and citrus. I want to bury my nose in the strong column of his neck and inhale him until I get a contact high.

But there’s no time for that. Time is a concept that doesn’t exist in my life, and John Tucker is too big a distraction.

“I’m paying for your lunch because that’s the way my mama raised me,” he says quietly. “Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s how I roll.”

I gulp down another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.” My voice shakes slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I appreciate it.”

We edge to the other end of the counter, waiting in silence as a curly-haired girl prepares my ham and Swiss sandwich. She wraps it up for me, and I tuck it under my arm while uncapping the Diet Coke I’d ordered. Then we’re on the move again. Tucker follows me out the door, watching in amusement as I try to juggle my drink and messenger bag and unwrap my sandwich at the same time.

“Let me hold this for you.” He takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a gentleness on his face as he watches me sink my teeth into the lightly toasted rye bread.

I barely chew before I’m taking a second bite, which makes him laugh. “Hungry?” he teases.

“Famished,” I admit, and I don’t even care that I’m being rude by talking with my mouth full.