By the time I reach the lecture hall, I'm seventeen minutes late.
It’ll be fine. People walk in late to classes all the time. I've just got to sneak in and sit in my usual corner seat. No one will notice, and I can just listen to the professor talk about the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my clothes, and push the door open—only to realize I've just interrupted Professor Foster mid-sentence.
All eyesare on me.
The silence in the hall is deafening.
My knees knock in mortification because not only am I late, but my face no doubt has half my Princess makeup caked on.
What an impression to leave not only on my favorite professor, but the rest of the class.
“You're late, Miss…” Professor Foster glares at me with enough intensity to burn a small village, and I deserve it.
“Conners. I'm Laura Conners,” I say, trying to sound confident despite the fact that I probably look like an Evermore princess who just ran through a bush. I suppose I should be happy that I at least managed to put some sweats on in the car before my sprint. “I'm sorry, Professor. I had some car trouble.”
It's technically not a lie. My car did make a very concerning noise that sounded like a dying whale when I turned into the parking lot. The fact that I was late because I was washing glitter out of my hair at Princess Emma's house isn't relevant information.
“Don't let it happen again.” She gestures to the front row. “Take a seat.”
I scan the room, and to my absolute horror, realize that the only available seat is right next to none other than the dick slapper himself.
Scotty Hendricks.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The hockey king is staring at me with those impossibly blue eyes and a slow-spreading grin that makes my stomach do a weird little flip. I force myself to ignore it, because it’s probably just hunger. I haven't eaten since that single strawberry I managed to snag from the dessert table.
I hurry to the seat, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially with him, and slide in, making myself as small as possible.
Put me on a stage or in front of a group of kids and I can handle all the attention in the world, but when it’s just me—Laura Conners—I can’t stand making a spectacle of myself. I don’t know…sometimes it feels like I don’t have anything worth giving and I’m wasting people’s time.
“Hey,” Scotty mumbles. My body tenses, but I hold back from snapping at him, or even looking at him, since I don't want to draw any more attention tomyself. I just want to get through this class with no one mentioning how I'm still wearing iridescent highlighter on my cheekbones. Besides that, last time Scotty and I were in close proximity, I was soaking wet and flashing my nipples to the entire freshman class. I’m still waiting for those images to show up on social media and for my drama class to use it against me.
Professor Foster dives back into the lecture, so I scramble to pull out my notebook and pretend I’m capable of focusing. I really try, but there’s one tiny, impossible problem.
Scotty isright there.
It’s easy to ignore him—hell, I didn’t even know he was in this class—when he sat far away from me, but now that he’s here I can’t shake him.
Every time I finish writing down a sentence, his hand brushes mine. It’s light and accidental, but it’s enough to send a jolt up my arm. When he types something on his laptop, I can’t help but notice his hands.
Big. Huge, in fact.
His fingers are so thick, it’s ridiculous.
How does the keyboard survive the finger assault?
Finger assault.
I roll my eyes.
And of course he smells good. Hockey players don’t usually smell like that.
His presence is… overbearing.
He takes a steady breath, completely absorbed in whatever she’s saying.
