The alarm on my phone goes off. Twenty minutes to cut across campus and make it to class. I hate Wednesdays. The one day the lecture hall is the farthest from the rink.
Fortunately, most dickheads have the common sense to get out of my way. And anyone who doesn’t know me gets plowed into.
Their fault.
If they don’t know better than to make way for one of the star defensemen of the North Shore Titans, then that isn’t my problem.
I push the door open to Ormsby Hall, my sneakers hitting the tile in perfect cadence. Only, as I turn the corner of the cream-colored hallway, something small collides into my chest.
The impact doesn’t faze me, and I have the pleasure of watching the little mouse of a man land on his ass.
He shakes his dirty blonde head as he tries to gather his supplies strewn across the ground. The situation is mildlyamusing and I lean down, pretending I'm about to help him but, really, it's just for show.
I get eye level with him, and his face is all flushed, his cornflower blue eyes darting around at the other students who can't seem to look away from his little drama. He cracks a hopeful smile at me, probably thinking I'm here to save the day.
Yeah, right.
I smirk back just to mess with him, the corners of my mouth stretching slowly, deliberately, letting a hint of sadism seep through.
He reaches out for one of his books, but I snatch it right out of his grasp. "Mastering Fundamental Composition," I read off the cover.
Funny, I've got the same one in my bag.
I stand to my full height, which is easily half a foot taller than him. “Maybe you should learn how to walk properly, or you could just stick to crawling.”
His smile drops, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out his next move.
He gathers the rest of his stuff in a rush, then scrambles to his feet. He looks up at me, sighing when I don't hand over the book.
For a moment, he bites his bottom lip, then meets my gaze straight on. "Can I have it back?"
With him standing right in front of me, I notice he’s not exactly as scrawny as I first thought, but still, he's no match for me. I'm broad, sharp, all about muscle and power.
He, on the other hand, is leaner, softer—sure, maybe athletic but still just another pushover.
Literally.
I could shove him back down if I wanted.
And you know what?
I do.
Then I fling the textbook farther down the hall. “Next time, watch where you’re going.”
I stroll past him and make my way to class.
Of course, by the time I get to the lecture hall, the only seats left are upfront. But I’m on time.
Barely.
The professor throws a shitfit anytime someone’s late, stopping the lesson and everything to admonish them.
Fucker after my own heart.
Gotta love degrading those beneath you.
No sooner do I open my notebook to a blank page when something catches my attention in my periphery.
