Tutoring the Player (Campus Wallflowers #1)(8)

I get the briefest of nods from her, and she takes another tentative step down the hall.

“Are you coming to the game tomorrow night?”

“Oh, umm…” She has this habit of tucking her hair behind her right ear, and she does it again now. “I’m not sure.”

“A big hockey fan like you?” I tease.

She blushes again but doesn’t say anything.

We come to the outside door, and I hold it open for her. The wind whips her long hair around her head, sending the strands and their fruity smell into my face.

She looks over her shoulder as she corrals her wild hair.

“I’m going that way.” I jab my thumb in the opposite direction toward my tech writing class. “Are you heading to another class?”

“No, I’m done for the day.”

“Are you in the dorms?”

She hesitates like she’s confused why I’m asking so many questions. Me too, but I find her sort of fascinating. “No, I live off-campus.”

“Huh.”

She looks at me quizzically. I can hardly tell her I find that surprising even though I do.

“You shouldn’t spend so much time socializing between classes.”

“What’s that?” Now it’s my turn to be confused.

A ghost of a smile crosses her pink lips. “It’s another tip for better time management.”





4





JORDAN





“I thought you two had forgotten.” Gavin tosses a wad of material at me. “New shirts.”

“Sorry. Coach held us late again.” Liam sets his bowling shoes down on the floor and takes a seat. “Just the three of us tonight?”

Gavin nods. “Jenkins had a study session.”

I hand Liam a shirt and hold up mine in front of me, then drop it to look at Gavin. “Lucky Strikes?”

He stands and picks up his blue bowling ball. “We couldn’t be Team Blue Balls again this year.”

“Why not?” I ask and slip the black Dickies shirt with our new team name printed on the front over my T-shirt. “It’s funny.”

“It’s really not that funny,” Liam says.

I flip him off as he moves to the computer.

“Same order?” he asks as he punches in our names.

“Sounds good to me.”

I’m rusty from not playing for a few months. The three of us, plus Gavin’s teammate, Andy Jenkins, joined a bowling league freshman year when Gavin and Andy lived across the hall instead of their sweet new digs at The White House. We were bored and heard this place never carded for alcohol. At the time, it seemed like as good a reason as any to join a bowling league. But two years later, we’re still doing it even after we’ve all turned twenty-one except Gavin.

At the end of the first game, we pause to grab a pitcher of beer and shoot the shit.

I stretch out my legs in front of me and rub at my left quad. “Coach is gonna kill us if he keeps running us like he has the past two weeks.”

“Practice is still that bad?” Gavin asks as he fills our glasses. Liam waves him off in favor of his water.

“It’s pretty bad. Coach doesn’t know whether to keep yelling or give us the world’s longest pep talk,” I say.

We lost another game last weekend. There is nothing worse than losing at home.

“What’s the problem? Are the rookies struggling that much to mesh with the rest of the team?” Gavin’s question is innocent enough, but I feel the prickle of discomfort wash over my buddy.

“I’m going to get some air.” Liam starts toward the doors without pausing for our response.

Gavin waits until he’s out of earshot. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Nah. It isn’t you. He’s feeling the pressure.” Coach made Liam captain this year, and ever since, his game on the ice has gone downhill.

“Is it just hockey, or does he have other distractions?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. A tough class schedule?”

I shake my head. “He has straight A’s.”

“New girlfriend?”

“No.” Another shake.

“Good,” he says. “Nothing like a new chick to make a guy lose focus. Trust me on that. New girlfriends are the worst kind of distraction. Women weaken the legs.”

“What?” I bust a laugh at his last words.

“It’s from Rocky.”

I keep staring at him.

He jumps up and hops from leg to leg, tossing punches like a boxer. “The movie. Rocky?”

“Oh, I understood the first time, but don’t stop making an ass out of yourself on my account.”

He stops and flips me off.





The next afternoon, Liam shows up late for practice. His face is red, and his shoulders are stiff.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says as he skates onto the ice.

He’s never been late for practice or a workout. Never.

I fall into line behind him for drills. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He stares straight ahead, jaw set.

I stop him with a glove to his bicep before he can skate forward. “Are you sick?”