Tutoring the Player (Campus Wallflowers #1)(15)
I grab another beer and wait for her reply, hitting the refresh every thirty seconds.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Pascal
The question is how to stop putting the pressure of success on one man’s shoulders. Hence, Pascal.
Hence? Seriously.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Pascal
I don’t think Pascal’s Law works in this situation, but I’d love to hear your take.
I pull up the assignment for my strength of materials course and read it over, but as soon as an email notification pops up, I click over to read her response.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Pascal
I was simply trying to say that maybe if you all took a little of the pressure, instead of piling it on one guy’s shoulders, the team would be the better for it. Pressure applied to any part of the boundary of a confined fluid is transmitted equally in ALL directions. You all have to take some of the stress.
I know, I know. Don’t @ me. A hockey team isn’t a fluid, but it’s the best I could do on the fly.
Go, team go!
I laugh, picturing her face typing out that cheery last line. I doubt she’s ever gone to a single sporting event. But, at this point, I might even take an unathletic physics major’s advice if it’ll help Liam.
7
DAISY
Violet comes into my room Friday afternoon as I’m sketching. “We’re going out in thirty minutes.”
“Where?” I drop my pencil and smooth my hair back out of my face. I blink several times to focus my eyes after staring at the paper for so long.
Instead of answering, she comes around to look at my drawing. “What are you working on?”
I flip the paper. “You can’t see yet. Not until it’s done.”
“You always say that.” She rolls her eyes playfully.
“Then you should know better than to ask.”
Smiling, she motions toward my left cheek. “You have black all over your face.” Her gaze drops to the side of my right hand, and the black smudges. “Shower and meet us downstairs for a drink before the Uber gets here.”
“You didn’t say where we were going?” I call after her.
I see Dahlia as I’m heading to the bathroom. She yawns and stretches like she just woke up from a nap.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“No idea,” she says. “How much are Violet and Jane going to yell at me if I just wear this?”
She’s in a baggy white T-shirt and jeans. She looks great, but maybe a little wrinkled. Our friends treat nights out like a runway show. I guess it’s because we don’t do it that often that it always feels like a lot of pressure to look and dress a certain way.
“I could do your hair if you want,” I offer.
“Distract them with killer hair and makeup.” Dahlia grins. “I love it.”
The four of us meet in the kitchen downstairs five minutes before the Uber is supposed to arrive.
Jane gives me an appreciative once over when I walk into the room. “Wow. Daisy. You look great.”
She circles around me, taking in every detail. I feel so short next to her.
Jane is five foot eight without heels, but she’s almost always wearing heels, so she looks even taller. She’s technically a freshman, but she’s the same age as the rest of us. She took a year off before starting school.
She’s a music major and filthy rich. Not just rich like she had nice things growing up. Jane has the kind of money that makes her a little out of touch with reality. Her parents are… well, actually I don’t know what they do, but something that makes them very wealthy. She once tried to offer me a thousand dollars to help her study for a calculus test.
She isn’t snooty, and she doesn’t really care about labels, though I think her shoe collection is mostly Louis Vuitton—even her sneakers.
Dahlia met her when she came to tour Valley U last spring. They kept in touch over the summer, and we jumped at the chance for all four of us to move in together off-campus this year.
“Will you please tell me where we’re going now?” I ask Violet.
She grins. “The Hideout.”
My stomach drops. “We can’t drink at The Hideout. They’ve been cracking down hard on underage drinking, and I’m shit at lying.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got us covered.” She pours us each a shot of tequila. “And, despite all my strongly worded emails to the owner, I can almost guarantee that the TVs will be tuned in to watch your guy play Utah.”
All three look at me.
“He isn’t my guy.” My face suddenly feels hot. “We’re just lab partners.”
I hold out my shot glass, and we clink them together, then toss them back. A shiver rolls through me at the awful liquor.
“For now,” Jane says, her face still twisted up from the tequila. “But who knows, by the end of the night anything could happen.”
“Exactly!” Vi exclaims. “Although he is a jock. Maybe we can find you someone else tonight.”