[ 8 ]
SCARLETT
“Why the helldoes he have that much money laying around?” Sawyer asks, whipping her attention toward me.
I make a face. “Well, it wasn’t exactly laying around.”
Her hand falls to my arm, and we stop walking. “What do you mean?”
A cool breeze slips in between us, reminding me that, although the temperature is higher than average, it’s still only January. Winter isn’t over, and with the cold glares from Cross, it feels even cooler.
I sigh and give in to the part of the story I left out. “I may or may not have been snooping around in his room.”
Sawyer’s mouth opens with shock, but it quickly changes into a sly grin. “I need all the details.”
We continue walking past the sports fields, on our way to the best coffee cart on campus. We’ve been on a mission to find the best barista on campus, and so far, the guy who appears higher than a kite each time we visit makes the best hazelnut latte.
“I was so pissed off about the flyers and alarm thing that I decided to try to get back at him.”
“By going through his room?” she asks. “What were you trying to find?”
“Anything useful.” I snort. “But all I found was a wad of cash and then an angry-looking Cross with a lot of bruises.”
Sawyer exhales, her pink cheeks slowly deflating. “You’re braver than I am. I’ve seen him on campus, and he looks…”
Hot?
I bite the inside of my cheek and rid the image of him inside the tub full of icy water. I didn't seetoomuch, but I saw enough to know there isn’t a part on his body that isn’t muscular.
“Scary?” I suggest instead.
She laughs. “I was going to say intense. How did he get so banged up? Was he fighting?”
I shrug. “I think my dad told me that he plays lacrosse, but I’m not sure he could get those types of injuries from that.”
“Speaking of lacrosse…”
I follow her line of sight and walk toward the chain-link fence overlooking the lacrosse field. Cross catches my attention right away from the tattoos on his arm. I couldn’t get a good look at them last night while he was submerged beneath ice, but there are very few players who have tattoos—at least visible to the public eye.
“What’s intense is how the hell he is even walking today,” I mutter, “let alone practicing."
Just as the word leaves my mouth, Cross collides mid-air with one of his teammates and falls to the ground. His helmet tumbles off his head, rolling to a complete stop near the goal.
Cross doesn’t move, and everyone freezes.
Except me.
I quickly hop the fence, leaving Sawyer behind as she calls out my name. I rush onto the field, my heart beating furiously in my chest. I think about all the injuries he had last night, how he winced when he opened his eyes to find me standing over him in the tub, likely from a concussion of some sort.
I push through the sea of guys holding their lacrosse sticks and find him slowly sitting up.
“Cross! Are you okay?” I ask, standing no more than a few feet away from him.
His teammates turn and look at me, most of them with creased brows and confusion.
Cross blinks a few times, giving his head a slight shake. A lock of sweaty hair falls onto his forehead, and for some insane reason, I want to bend down and push it out of the way to confirm he’s okay, but I have no idea why.
“He’s fine,” someone says from behind.
