I just can’t fathom why that ally is me. Not when he could have anyone.Anyone.
So whyme?
EIGHT
Markham approvesour outlines by Thursday’s class, so Wes and I plan to meet up on Saturday afternoon to practice. Sitting on one of the cold benches outside the Foundations building, my knee jiggles with nervous energy as I scan the passing students. None of them fit the descriptorstall, broad, magnetic.None of them pay me any mind.
If I’m being honest, a part of me is expecting Wes to just forget about me altogether. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure he’s got bigger and better things to do than meet me on a weekend, and I’ve almost convinced myself of that when I spot him heading toward me right on time.
I release a slow exhale, my relief more potent than I’d like to admit.
As I get to my feet, I notice the way he ignores the stares and the whispers of students—mostly female—as he passes them by. I wonder how a person gets used to being watched wherever they go. Isn’t it exhausting? Annoying? Or does he find it flattering?
He waves at me halfway down the path, a big gesture that draws too much attention, and I shrink into myself, self-conscious of the curious eyes. I can only imagine what they’rethinking, seeing someone like him with someone like me. He’s larger than life, and I’m, well, a nobody.
He comes to a halt in front of me, his eyes giving me a quick once-over. I do the same, noting that he’s dressed in his usual uniform of white sneakers, jeans, and a Stratus Football sweatshirt. His notebook is tucked under his arm, his thermos in his hand, and that forty-watt smile brightens his face.
“Hey, Ives,” he says, using that nickname again. “You look pretty.”
Pretty.My face warms at his compliment, and I stutter out athanks.
Wes grins like he’s aware of the effect he has and waggles his eyebrows. “I rented us a room.”
“Youwhat?” I blurt, and his smile turns playful.
“Astudyroom. At the library. I figured you wouldn’t want to practice at my house, and I couldn’t very well invite myself over to yours, could I? That would be rude, and my mother taught me better than that.”
My shoulders relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t want to go to his house, nor invite him over to my place. “Oh, good thinking.”
He gestures down the sidewalk. “Shall we?”
"Sure," I say, and we begin our walk across the quad.
Meeting up with Wes on a Saturday, in the middle of the day, has a similar feeling to running into one of my grade school teachers at the supermarket. Strange. Unnatural. Out of place. And when he holds open the library door, allowing me to step inside first, I can’t help but question how in the world I ended up here.
“Which room is it?” I ask him, unzipping my coat.
“Six, I think.” He narrows his eyes. Scratches the side of his nose. “Do you, uh, have any idea where that is?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Don’t spend much time in here, do you?”
He shrugs a shoulder but scans the room like he’s never seen it before. I head in the direction of the front desk, and he follows. “They have study centers for student athletes near the training center.”
“Far away from us commoners?”
“It does seem like that, doesn’t it?” I raise my eyebrows. “No, trust me. I agree with you. There are definite perks to playing a sport, besides the scholarship, I mean. But it does take over every aspect of your life. Football is the reason I came to this school, but it’s also the reason I have to take a two-year gap before med school. I just haven’t had any time to prep.”
I want to inquire further about his med school plans, but a group of girls distracts me. Seated at one of the nearby tables, they’re all hand-over-mouth whispering to each other, shooting furtive glances Wes’s way. Heat crawls up my neck, even though I’m not the one they’re ogling, and I stare down at my shoes as we stop at the desk.
“Hey, man, how are you?” Wes asks the student working, oblivious to his fan club.
“F-f-fine,” the guy sputters, frazzled by Wes’s presence. At least I’m not the only one.
“We have study room six booked. I think we need a key? It’s under Wes Tucker.”
The guy nods so hard his glasses start to slip off his nose. He hastily shoves them back up. “Yes. Yes. I know who you are. Um, one second.”
While desk boy starts clicking through screens on his computer, one of the girls from the table appears at Wes’s side.
